Punch Line
by Marlowe97
Summary: In a town somewhere in Texas, multiple mutilated corpses pile up. Are there hellhounds roaming free, or is it something different? Because, honestly - could there be something worse than hellhounds? Set during season 4, sometime after "Family remains"
1. Chapter 1

_Hi there._

_This is my first attempt to publish my story on an English website. I'm not really a native speaker, so if you find my English too horrible, please let me know (Don't worry - I'm not that bad)_

_I like to warn you all, not knowing about your feebleness: The Winchesters are grown ups. Awfully good-looking grown-ups. They behave like grown-ups. Including sex. Not yet, though. I'll warn you. Promise. Also, there will be violence (it IS Supernatural - it's supposed to be violent). And a little hurt!Dean. Just a little - couldn't resist. _

_It is set in season 4 after "Family remains". Soilers for everything until then.  
_

_Now, down to business:_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sam and Dean Winchester, the Impala or their arsenal. I like to say I borrowed them for a little while. Since I like them, I make sure they come back healthy. I do own the story around the Texan town and I do own a dog. And a car. That's about it...  
_

_Now, concerning reviews: I like them. Would be thrilles to find some here. _

_Since my first chapter is a little short, I'm posting two today._

_Have fun_

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
_

„No way!"

„Believe it."

„You've got to be kidding me! How the h… fuck did we end up in this crappy motel? I mean, even for our low standards, this is the pits."

"Well, if **you** had let me stay at the poker-table yesterday, we had been able to afford a little more luxury!"

Sam opened the door and stepped out. "So all the other motels are more expensive??"

"Well, that's the other thing; all the others are booked out."

"Great"

Muttering under his breath, Sam decided to never, ever again take a job where a StarTrek Convention was held. During their drive they had seen so many Datas, Vulcans and Klingons, he wasn't even sure if they were real or costumes. He had made a game of trying to find similarities between the Trekkie-costumes and real-life monsters. Probably his dreams would be about hunting blue beasts with white hair and antennae.

Though the motel was old and mouldy, the room was not that bad. The interior was boring and the design seemed to suggest that this had been a hospital once. White walls, white sheets, whitish curtains – a picture with flowers above the beds.

But the mattresses were ok and the sheets were – though thin and slightly threadbare – clean and smelled faintly of fabric softener.

The bathroom consisted of a sink, a toilet and something resembling a shower head.

"Cool, you can actually use the toilet while taking a shower! But where do you store the paper??"

"Well, at least you _can_ take a shower – guess it's something. Speaking of which: you should definitely take one. Now, Dean."

"So what are we hunting here?" Dean asked, towelling his hair which was still damp from the shower.

"I don't know yet. But the thing is six people have died in the last six months. They don't seem connected, coming from different social backgrounds and totally different parts of the town." Sam was sorting through a stack of pictures on the bed.

"Three are white, one Latino, two black. All are of different age, ranging from early thirties to middle sixties. We have:

- A woman from the lower middle-class

- A construction-site worker

- A caretaker

- A banker

- A rich lady from the „best of the local families" and …

- A pimp."

"Really, a pimp? Never had one of those between our victims. Why is that, what'd you think?"

"Maybe because no one would bother hunting something that kills scumbags?"

"Good point." Dean grinned sheepishly. "So what **do** they have in common? I mean, how did they die?"

He took hold of one picture, the woman in fine clothes with a haircut that was probably more expensive than the whole motel. Next to it was the picture of another woman, stringy hair and the look of too much alcohol plainly written in her face.

"They were all ripped to shreds." Sam was watching his brother from the corner of his eye. Was there a twitch? Did his face fall – just a bit? He couldn't tell.

Raising his eyebrows and cocking his head, Dean said "Not a nice way to go – a werewolf?"

"….No, the lunar-circle doesn't fit. And there were no organs missing. Well, except parts of them."

"Hmm."

"Anything else but "Hm", Dean?"

"Well, they don't look like they had much success – at least four of them didn't. Maybe this banker – Carl Borroms – and this Martha Grayle. But the others… If they made a deal, it was a pretty shitty one. So we can rule out hellhounds, right?"

Yep, he was definitely avoiding eye-contact. Sam had gotten pretty good at "Dean-reading" since his brother had been returned from damnation. There were small signs – not always visible, but if you knew where – and when – to look, you could spot them.

"Selling your soul is not the only reason for an encounter with a hellhound Dean."

"Man, I so** don't** want to hear abouthellhounds!"

***

"So, what do we need to know about these things? Except that they rip your soul out and drag it kicking and screaming down to Hell?"

Sam looked up from his laptop. He had known his brother would eventually get curious about why they were here, but he hadn't expected it so soon.

Dean raised himself on his elbows.

"I mean, we know they take sinners and people so desperate they sell their souls. But there is no way to stop them – certainly not for us."

"Yeah, right. But somehow, this doesn't look like the typical hellhound-situation here. I mean, you said so yourself: most of these victims didn't make a deal. There are way too many deaths, way too short after each other to be coincidence. _And_ they all seem to be connected to the same part of the city: Look," Sam passed the laptop over to his brother's bed "all of them died in this area."

"Huh. So, let's check out the corpses and then look at the crime-scene. Time for the FBI to 'help with the inquiry'."

The Winchesters rose from their position in search for their boots. While Sam went to the bathroom-thingy, he heard Dean mumbling something under his breath. He couldn't hear all of it, but there was definitely something like "bitchy beasts from hell" in the muttering.

Sam couldn't help smiling to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

"Agents Ford and Waverly, FBI. Are you Dr. Lucy Cox?"

The brothers stood in front of a tall, grey-blond woman in a lab coat, bent over the desk reading some papers. She wore her hair in a knot which was held on her head by a pencil. Her profile looked tired and somehow sad.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" She didn't look up.

"We were told you are the responsible coroner for the autopsies of – wait: Robert Parker, Sadie Smith and Pedro Hernandez?"

"Really, am I?" Dr. Cox looked up – and nearly lost her pen. _Holy cow, this is the __**hottest**__ pair of cops I have ever seen! Just my luck I look like something the cat dragged in…_

"Sorry, your assistant said that they were your cases."

Lucy was a professional. After telling thousands of relatives that their loved ones were dead – and no, they probably didn't want to know how they had died – she never lost her composure.

But this time it was hard work. _Damn it, they are gorgeous!_

"If Polly said so, she is probably right. I just never really remember the names. What was the cause of death? Walk with me – I need a cig…- coffee." _Hell, I stopped smoking two years ago. _

"It says here 'unknown', but the file suggests that it is the result of an animal attack." Dr. Cox wrinkled her forehead in thought and scratched her head.

"Rrrrright – I remember."

She lifted one of her eyebrows and dared to look the taller agent in the eyes. _Nice eyes – just a bit sad. _

They had reached a small but friendly furnished kitchen. In one corner stood three chairs around a small table, on the countertop was a coffee-machine, bubbling happily. Mugs with all kind of funny animals were placed next to it, arranged neatly around a donut-box.

"They were nearly totally skinned, you could see the bones through the claw marks. One of them – the construction worker, forgot his name…"

"Robert Parker"

"Right. He was missing the lower half of his head. Bitten off or torn off – couldn't tell anymore."

She poured the coffee in a big mug and took a donut.

"You want one? Help yourself."

_Lucy, get a grip! __He'll notice that you're staring! And that you'll start drooling any minute._

Sam poured himself some coffee, Dean looked at the donuts and decided against them. Somehow, the thought of sweet, sugar-coated bakery made him uneasy. Man, he hated hospitals, even if it was just the morgue. The smell was so… cold, hopeless. And final.

"Why are you investigating?" Dr. Cox was mumbling with her mouth full.

Sam had just taken a sip of coffee – hot and fresh, not the usual weak, tepid and tasteless piss – so Dean spoke.

"Maybe you've heard there have been other killings like that. Different kind of people, some of them quite rich and some just ordinary, every-day persons. We somehow stumbled over this, because we were investigating the death of one Carl Borroms, who was helping us in another case. First we thought it was a contract killing, but the circumstances didn't fit. And when we found out that there had been other deaths nearly exactly like that…"

He smiled – and Dr. Cox nearly choked on her donut.

_This is ridiculous, Lucy. You have a son his age!_

She tried to save some of her composure, but she had to cough and was spitting donut-crumbles all over the agent.

The fact that he grinned even wider didn't help the situation.

"Sorry" she mumbled after she caught her breath again.

"No worries, I really hate that suit anyway." _His voice is like honey-coated gravel. And I can't shake the feeling that he knows __**exactly**__ why I choked._

She lowered her eyes, shook her head and grinned. _To hell with it – who cares if you fancy them! _

"Follow me."

They walked down the hallway, turned left, down the stairs and through another hallway.

"You are not trying to abduct us somewhere?" Agent Waverly had asked that – or was it Ford? She didn't remember who was who. _Agent Tall_ Lucy decided.

"No, but I wish. It's just so packed in the upper parts of the hospital that we had to relocate some of our "less important" clients."

Dr. Cox hated that kind of politics. No one should be "less important" when he was dead. But since there **really** was no room upstairs, she went with it.

"I have something you might wanna see."

***

On the cold steel table lay a corpse. Better, the remains of a corpse. It had been cleaned already. With the pale, bluish flesh and bloodless wounds it looked even more horrible as if it had been covered in gore.

Dean cocked his head, looking at the sight in front of him. _Like hypnotized_, Lucy thought. His eyes were far away – wherever they went wasn't a happy place.

"Wow." Sam had reached the table.

"Yep, that's what everyone says who sees him. Had taken four hours to secure any possible evidence, search all the wounds for something – DNA, hair, fibre – just something."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing! He had been torn to pieces. Whatever had killed him was thorough and slow. His heart had been beating until he had bled out – which took a while. Somehow this creature managed to avoid hitting any of the arteries. It looks like random claw marks and bites – but how could an animal **miss** the arteries when it tears out his liver? And rips open the stomach? His guts had been hanging out, his legs and arms, hands and feet were bitten and the beast had been tearing at him. It had stripped his flesh and skin from his torso – see?"

She took some tweezers and lifted a piece of flesh. Only one small part was still attached to the corpse, the rest was like a bed-sheet, which slapped down on the body after Dr. Cox released it.

Sam swallowed. It sounded too much like a steak. And the smell of formaldehyde was getting to him.

"His body is nearly empty; the animal chewed on his intestines, gnawed through his stomach and bit away parts of his kidneys. His bladder was ripped – must be a very unpleasant sensation, if you ask me. The rips were broken by impact, the torso opened with blunt claws. Some of the ribs have been bitten in pieces. Piece by piece by piece – and since we couldn't find any remains, we think they were swallowed by the … thing. Same goes for his left hand – no remains were found. Torn off. As were the fingers on his right hand. His face was chewed on, 'specially the ears – while he was alive! The skull was cracked in many places, but even here no fatal wound occurred. The muscles and ligaments have been stretched nearly to the point of tearing apart – and it takes a lot of strength to do that! Someone – or something – must have pulled on two ends of him. This guy had been attacked by at least two animals. Probably more."

"What kind of animal?" Agent Greeneyes had returned from his trip down memory lane.

"I don't know. All the marks say 'dog'; big, fierce dog. But there is not **one** piece of DNA, no saliva, no hair – nothing. And before you ask – not a sign of human participation was found. It **must** have been dogs, but absolutely clean, hairless and without saliva?"

She shook her head, pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "If you tell me it was an invisible dog-pack - I'll believe it. Hell, I'll even believe it were aliens or a secret CIA-weapon."

She turned to Greeneyes, whose face was expressionless and stern.

"Doc, there is of course no such thing as a secret CIA-weapon. If there was, we wouldn't tell you. If we did, we would have to remove you."

He was joking. His face didn't give away anything, but his eyes were sparkling with fun.

_You could get lost in those eyes…_

"Hrmhrm" – Agent Tall was clearing his throat. "Do you know if there is a dog – or two – missing somewhere? Or a wolf, maybe?"

"No, not that I know of. But if there were wild dogs running around in the streets, don't you think someone would have seen something? Or heard? There are no other animals missing, no cattle, no cats or rabbits or whatever pets people keep these days. We – I mean the police – already checked."

"We should better re-check. Is there an animal-shelter somewhere in the city?"

"Two, actually. One is maintained by the county, the other one is private. I can give you the addresses. Follow me, they are in my office."

Sam was glad to get away from the corpse. It disturbed him. Vivid images of torn flesh, ripped ribcages and sprays of blood were running through his head. He all too well remembered his brother on the floor, the sound of tearing fabric and flesh, the smell of blood – metallic and strong.

The screams.

And his own helplessness. Pinned to the wall, he could only watch. Couldn't even lift a finger to help Dean. All his promises, how he would save him, how he would somehow get him out of this deal – worthless.

That day, he felt something grab his heart and squeeze every ounce of life out of it. Froze it. Turned it to stone; cold, unmoving and dark.

And yet it had kept on beating. Relentless, merciless, never missing a beat. He had tried to feel something or nothing, had tried to wash away the pain.

Alcohol didn't help. Cigarettes made him vomit. Marijuana gave him nightmares, worse than the ones he already had. After the experiment with the pot, he never had had the guts to start with the hard stuff.

Good thing he didn't. Would have been a very unpleasant surprise to come back from hell and find your brother with a needle in his arm…

Something bobbed his shoulder. _"Wake up, Dude"_ whispered Dean. The doctor was leading them back through the hallway, to the staircase. Sam had already walked half the way without even noticing. He was just shaking his weary head when he bumped into Dr Cox, who had stopped suddenly and snapped her fingers.

"Damn, I forgot to lock the door – be right back with you", she shouted, already rushing back the way they had come. The brothers followed her with their eyes, her long white coat waving behind her.

"You're right, this was no hellhound."

"Why do you say that?"

Dean looked at his brother as if he had just ordered a pizza in a sushi-bar.

"You're kidding, right? A hellhound wouldn't bother torturing a person. They grab you, kill you and take your soul. The torturing comes later."

Sam shook his head. He knew his brother. Had known him for all his life. And still he managed to surprise him. With a sentence, a word, a joke – this sudden unexpected smile of his, that could illuminate the whole room. Not subtle and slow like a candle, but like an explosion of light and happiness.

Scary.

"Yes, I agree."

"So what then? Ghost dogs?"

"Maybe. There is…"

"Shshshs, she's back!"

They turned around and went up the stairs, Doctor Cox trailing behind. Admiring the view in front of her – _Nice ass, both of them!_ – Lucy felt compelled to start a conversation. _Why is it that women always start to babble when they feel embarrassed?_

"So, how long have you been with the FBI? You seem pretty young."

The tall one turned his head around.

"Some time. Not that long, to be honest. But we are good. That's why we were given a case so soon. And since our real case died with Mr Borroms, we kind of felt responsible for this one."

"Yeah, otherwise we would have had to go back sorting paperclips in the office." said Agent Greeneyes, still with his back to her.

"How old are you two?" She really couldn't tell. They seemed to change age from one blink of the eye to the next.

"Older than we look, Doc." Tall smiled at her, and she didn't doubt it a second. There was…something in his eyes, something sad and lonely and hidden. She had seen a look like that, often.

It was part of her daily routine.


	3. Chapter 3

___I want to remind you, that I wrote this story after "Family remains" - actually, the most of it was written during the long wait after "Heaven and Hell". So, my Dean is a little less bothered about the Apocalypse - simply because he doesn't know yet... _

_Just wanted to tell you before you start wondering. _

_Oh, it might get a tiny bit disgusting, Dr Cox doesn't care about sugarcoating death-scenarios...  
_

_Note: the song Dean listens to is "Learn to fly" from the glorious FooFighters. It's radio, so don't worry about his new taste - I like to think he might actally listen to other music once in a while..._

_In case someone reads this: I would be mighty pleased to get e review. Even bad ones... Please?_

_

* * *

  
_

On the cold steel table lay a corpse. Better, the remains of a corpse. It had been cleaned already. With the pale, bluish flesh and bloodless wounds it looked even more horrible as if it had been covered in gore.

Dean cocked his head, looking at the sight in front of him. _Like hypnotized_, Lucy thought. His eyes were far away – wherever they went wasn't a happy place.

"Wow." Sam had reached the table, staring at the blue flesh on it.

"Yep, that's what everyone says who sees him. Had taken four hours to secure any possible evidence, search all the wounds for something – DNA, hair, fibre – just something."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing! He had been torn to pieces. Whatever had killed him was thorough and slow. His heart had been beating until he had bled out – which took a while. Somehow this creature managed to avoid hitting any of the arteries. It looks like random claw marks and bites – but how could an animal **miss** the arteries when it tears out his liver? And rips open the stomach? His guts had been hanging out, his legs and arms, hands and feet were bitten and the beast had been tearing at him. It had stripped his flesh and skin from his torso – see?"

She took some tweezers and lifted a piece of flesh. Only one small part was still attached to the corpse, the rest was like a bed-sheet, which slapped down on the body after Dr. Cox released it.

Sam swallowed. It sounded too much like a steak. And the smell of formaldehyde was getting to him.

"His body is nearly empty; the animal chewed on his intestines, gnawed through his stomach and bit away parts of his kidneys. His bladder was ripped – must be a very unpleasant sensation, if you ask me.

The rips were broken by impact, the torso opened with blunt claws. Some of the ribs have been bitten in pieces. Piece by piece by piece – and since we couldn't find any remains, we think they were swallowed by the … thing. Same goes for his left hand – no remains were found. Torn off. As were the fingers on his right hand. His face was chewed on, 'specially the ears – while he was alive! The skull was cracked in many places, but even here no fatal wound occurred.

The muscles and ligaments have been stretched nearly to the point of tearing apart – and it takes a lot of strength to do that! Someone – or something – must have pulled on two ends of him. This guy had been attacked by at least two animals. Probably more."

"What kind of animal?" Agent Greeneyes had returned from his trip down memory lane.

"I don't know. All the marks say 'dog'; big, fierce dog. But there is not **one** piece of DNA, no saliva, no hair – nothing. And before you ask – not a sign of human participation was found. It **must** have been dogs, but absolutely clean, hairless and without saliva?"

She shook her head, pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "If you tell me it was an invisible dog-pack - I'll believe it. Hell, I'll even believe it were aliens or a secret CIA-weapon."

She turned to Greeneyes, whose face was expressionless and stern.

"Doc, there is of course no such thing as a secret CIA-weapon. If there was, we wouldn't tell you. If we did, we would have to remove you."

He was joking. His face didn't give away anything, but his eyes were sparkling with fun.

_You could get lost in those eyes…_

"Hrmhrm" – Agent Tall was clearing his throat. "Do you know if there is a dog – or two – missing somewhere? Or a wolf, maybe?"

"No, not that I know of. But if there were wild dogs running around in the streets, don't you think someone would have seen something? Or heard? There are no other animals missing, no cattle, no cats or rabbits or whatever pets people keep these days. We – I mean the police – already checked."

"We should better re-check. Is there an animal-shelter somewhere in the city?"

"Two, actually. One is maintained by the county, the other one is private. I can give you the addresses. Follow me, they are in my office."

Sam was glad to get away from the corpse. It disturbed him. Vivid images of torn flesh, ripped ribcages and sprays of blood were running through his head. He all too well remembered his brother on the floor, the sound of tearing fabric and flesh, the smell of blood – metallic and strong.

The screams.

And his own helplessness. Pinned to the wall, he could only watch. Couldn't even lift a finger to help Dean. All his promises, how he would save him, how he would somehow get him out of this deal – worthless.

That day, he felt something grab his heart and squeeze every ounce of life out of it. Froze it. Turned it to stone; cold, unmoving and dark.

And yet it had kept on beating. Relentless, merciless, never missing a beat. He had tried to feel something or nothing, had tried to wash away the pain.

Alcohol didn't help. Cigarettes made him vomit. Marijuana gave him nightmares, worse than the ones he already had. After the experiment with the pot, he never had had the guts to start with the hard stuff.

Good thing he didn't. Would have been a very unpleasant surprise to come back from hell and find your brother with a needle in his arm…

Something bobbed his shoulder. _"Wake up, Dude"_ whispered doctor was leading them back through the hallway, to the staircase. Sam had already walked half the way without even noticing. He was just shaking his weary head when he bumped into Dr Cox, who had stopped suddenly and snapped her fingers.

"Damn, I forgot to lock the door – be right back with you", she shouted, already rushing back the way they had come. The brothers followed her with their eyes, her long white coat waving behind her.

"You're right, this was no hellhound."

"Why do you say that?"

Dean looked at his brother as if he had just ordered a pizza in a sushi-bar.

"You're kidding, right? A hellhound wouldn't bother torturing a person. They grab you, kill you and take your soul. The torturing comes later."

Sam shook his head. He knew his brother. Had known him for all his life. And still he managed to surprise him. With a sentence, a word, a joke – this sudden unexpected smile of his, that could illuminate the whole room. Not subtle and slow like a candle, but like an explosion of light and happiness.

Scary.

"Yes, I agree."

"So what then? Ghost dogs?"

"Maybe. There is…"

"Shshshs, she's back!"

They turned around and went up the stairs, Doctor Cox trailing behind. Admiring the view in front of her – _Nice ass, both of them!_ – Lucy felt compelled to start a conversation. _Why is it that women always start to babble when they feel embarrassed?_

"So, how long have you been with the FBI? You seem pretty young."

The tall one turned his head around.

"Some time. Not that long, to be honest. But we are good. That's why we were given a case so soon. And since our real case died with Mr Borroms, we kind of felt responsible for this one."

"Yeah, otherwise we would have had to go back sorting paperclips in the office." said Agent Greeneyes, still with his back to her.

"How old are you two?" She really couldn't tell. They seemed to change age from one blink of the eye to the next.

"Older than we look, Doc." Tall smiled at her, and she didn't doubt it a second. There was…something in his eyes, something sad and lonely and hidden. She had seen a look like that, often.

It was part of her daily routine.

_*****  
**_

"We agree – no hellhounds?"

Sam and Dean stood in front of the hospital; slight drizzle had tinged the city-streets with grey light and pasted a slick wetness on the road.

"No hellhounds" Sam sighted, breathing in the cold air and enjoying the sensation of rain on his face.

"Good. Because if it **were** hellhounds, I would get in the car and leave. Never looking back."

Sam nodded, but couldn't help himself: "What, and leave some poor soul for the chops?"

"Dude, I will happily hunt ghosts, spirits, monsters and demons. I even hunt gods. But everyone has to draw the line somewhere – and my thin red line is hellhounds. I'm kind of prejudiced against them." Dean winked, grinned and opened the Impala.

"Can I ask you something?"

"'Course."

"It's kind of personal."

"So you might not get an answer – but ask anyway."

"How can you joke? About all that happened? Me, I even feel bad saying "hell" in a conversation."

Dean sighted and looked in the distance. _Great, another question I won't get an answer to. _Sam made a face and settled in the seat, trying to find a halfway comfortable position to store his long legs.

***

"Because it's easier."

They had been driving for about ten minutes already before Dean spoke. That he would bring up the question again surprised Sam.

"What else can I do? I mean, it was my choice – nobody forced me to make the deal. So it is my own fault. I'm not saying I deserved it – but that is what deals are for. To get the souls which **don't **deserve to go to Hell. So I went – and whatever happened was of my own making. Now, I can accept that and go on living – or I can blow my brains out. Which would be bad taste, considering that people – and beings – spent their time trying to rescue me. And last not least, according to popular belief, suicide would be a one-way trip down again."

He looked at Sam and gave him a lopsided grin.

"So I joke. Fun is an important part of being alive. The best part."

Sam pondered the last bit.

"I thought sex is the best part of being alive?"

"Dude, sex **equals** fun!"

"Since when do you think like that?"

"About sex??"

"You know what I mean!"

"How long will this conversation go?"

"As long as I'm getting answers – I'll squeeze as much information out of you as I can, before you fall back into "silent-mode"."

"OK, than that's it. Silent mode's on – chick-flick moment's over!"

_But it's a good question, Sammy_

Dean was staring out of the windscreen, driving automatically, taking in the environment and the intensifying rain, but not really seeing what was in front of them. He was used to do that, he drove that way since… well, he couldn't tell anymore.

_Since when do I think like that? _If he was completely honest with himself – and he was getting better and better with this too – he had started to think that way after the 'Godzilla vs. Mothra-trick' they had pulled on Castiel, Uriel and Alistair.

_Alistair._

Dean still went cold when he thought about the demon. Even thinking his **name** would give him shivers all over. _Great, nightmare for tonight… _

After Hell, he was only going through the notions, _mimicking_ life and fun and happiness. He had taken memories of good emotions and tried to wrap them around what was really in his heart, which was – darkness.

A big, deep pit, filled with fear, self-loath and shame. Sometimes it had felt as if some light was getting in – seeing this absurd, giant, depressed Teddy-bear for instance.

Dean had to smile at the memory. That day he had felt nearly good. But it didn't last, and he had started pretending again.

Until they had met Anna.

She had seen through all his walls, through all his lies and all his smiles. She had seen into his soul – and she hadn't turned away. She didn't run, even though she **knew** what he had done.

That someone so essentially _good_ would forgive him, would even try to console him had made him feel better. Warm. And somehow safe.

He would never have expected it, but she had gotten through the ice around his heart and touched something in there, something he had kept locked and safe, nearly forgotten.

And she had so longed to stay human. Just because it had made her **feel. **Ever since then, Dean had been chipping away at his ice-walls. _I guess it is __better to have as much emotions as possible __**now **__than mourn them when they have disappeared forever. _And as long as he had a choice, he was going after the good ones.

A bright smile started on his lips, wandering over his face until he grinned all over, stepped on the gas and switched on the music.

_"I'm looking to the sky to save me  
Looking for a sign of life  
Looking for something help me burn out bright_

_I'm looking for complications  
Looking cos I'm tired of lying  
Make my way back home  
When I learn to fly"_

Turning up the volume, he started to sing at the top of his voice, grinning wildly at his brother who was staring at him in silent amazement.


	4. Chapter 4

"According to Dr. Cox, this is the place."

They had stopped at an intersection, two narrow roads between half-withered houses. The Impala was blocking nearly the entire lane, so they had had to drive two blocks further until they found a spot to park the car.

Still humming _Foo Fighters_, Dean fetched the EMF-meter from the trunk. The rain had gotten stronger, so both slipped on jackets over their FBI-suits. They walked back two blocks, entered a narrow alley and looked at the spot that was indicated in the file-copy the coroner had given them.

"Well, I could never tell if we didn't have the file."

"Ugh." Sam looked at the big, dark crimson puddle in front of them. This must have been a hell of a find for the two kids who reported the body. The whining noise of the meter told them what they had already expected: Spirit-activity. A lot of activity, to be precise.

"OK, another thing we can rule out is "_Pet Cemetery_". Zombies don't give up EMF."

"So what pisses off a dog so bad that it starts mauling people? After death? Never heard of that." Sam raised his brows at his brother - who wasn't looking at him but at the gory ground.

"Really? You never heard of the Cŵn Annwn in Wales, or Barghest of Yorkshire? Not even the Gytrash, which is first mentioned in Charlotte Brontë's _Jane Eyre?_"

"Sam."

Dean was still crouching next to the blood-puddle, which was going to be washed away by morning looking up at his taller brother, slowly shaking his head in wonder.

"You know, sometimes you really scare me."

Sam grinned and started an explanation, when he noticed Dean's eyes widen.

"What is it?"

"Please tell me you hear that!"

Sam listened – and clearly heard the loud growl. It must have come from around the corner, but the growling was so loud, the dog couldn't be far away. To make matters worse, a second growl started. And a third.

"If it makes you feel better – I can hear it too."

"Absurdly, it does." Dean swallowed but it _really_ made him feel better. Even though he knew it wasn't hellhounds they were chasing, the vicious growl had touched deep hidden fears. He rose from his squatting position, looking around for an escape-route. There was only one way out, the other direction was closed off with a high fence. They could probably climb over it, but if a spirit would be deterred by a simple fence…

"You don't happen to have the shotgun with you somewhere?"

"Oh yes Dean, it's stored in my left boot!"

"Just asking, wiseass. OK, maybe…"

"Wait, I think they are leaving."

Sam was right, the growling was getting quieter. It seemed to disappear in the distance.

"Maybe it was real dogs?"

Sam and Dean were sneaking nearer to the corner – until the pathway was suddenly blocked by three giant dogs, growling so quietly there was nearly no sound at all.

They were dark, nearly black. Their heads were covered in scars, blood was gluing together the short fur between their torn and battered ears. More blood was sticking everywhere across their lean, muscular bodies. They were covered with open wounds, which like angry evil grins seemed to mock everyone who saw them. Foaming spit was dripping from their jaws, the teeth bared, bloody and shiny-white at once. One of them was missing its tail; another one had a broken leg – the bone protruding from a nasty wound. Still, it didn't seem to slow this creature down. They looked terrifying and really, really pissed…

But worst of all were the eyes.

Grey and empty. Two angry, red-glowing dots where the pupils should have been. Like the last embers of a campfire, buried deep in the remaining ashes you find in the morning.

"Sam…"

"Move slowly."

"What??"

"Fast movement is pretty unwise in front of an angry dog."

Slowly they retreated, not daring to let the dogs out of sight. When one of them – the smallest – started to follow, the others did so too.

"Sam…"

"Don't run, they'll only chase us."

The smallest dog was still leading, its eyes fixed on the two hunters. They were creeping slowly, but there was no mistaking their intentions. When they stopped, the brothers stopped too.

Sam gave up any hope this would end well. These dogs were on the hunt – and they were their intended prey.

"**Run"**

They turned and ran, the dogs accelerating on the spot. Three sets of claws were scratching the gritty surface of the road. The fence was close. Sam was only slightly faster, but with his long legs he reached higher and cleared the fence first. Dean was a split-second after him.

A split second was all it took. The pack-leader gripped his leg and yanked him from the fence. A fierce, hot pain shot through his head as it hit the tarmac. He heard his brother scream and felt the teeth of the dog in his calves, tearing at him, dragging him away from the fence, thrashing its head while doing so.

_Nonononononononononononono__!_

The rest of the pack joined their leader, ripping at him, jerking at his jacket and shirt and pants.

_Nooooo__!_

His heart was banging against his ribs; beating so loud that he couldn't even hear the dogs anymore. He kicked and fought, connecting with solid bodies yet never causing any damage, never managing to slow them down. They just kept on ripping his clothes off him, shaking their heads with fury and anger, clawing at his chest, his legs, his arms, their powerful jaws never letting go of the parts in their muzzles.

Panic rose, made his vision fuzzy, bringing back memories of fire, desperation and pain.

_So much pain__…_

_****  
_

A shrill sound pierced the street.

At once, the dogs stopped and looked towards the entrance of the alleyway.

Sam, already climbing back across the fence to help his brother, saw a dark figure against the grey light. The sound – a whistle, he realized – sounded again and the dogs turned around and ran towards the figure, their battered bodies moving as if in play, the tails wagging happily. Just before they reached the figure, they vanished. An eye-blink later, the human shape was gone too.

"**Dean!!!**"

His heart was cramping painfully as he ran, sliding the last half meter across the gravel, already on his knees.

"Dean!"

His brother was on his back, eyes open, staring blindly in the falling rain.

_No-no-no-no!!!! I cannot loose him, not again! Please, No!_

It was only a fragment of a second before Dean blinked again. He coughed and moaned when the pain set in. He was panting and started to curl up, hugging himself.

"You alright?" Sam felt a ton of bricks rumbling from his heart, a giant iron clamp releasing him. Heartbeat set in again.

"No…"

Dean's voice was hoarse, more a rough whisper. It shouldn't have been so comforting to hear it, but it was the sweetest sound Sam had heard in a long time. Slowly, his brother uncurled and lay on his back again, looking up at Sam and taking a deep but careful breath.

"Are you crying?"

"No." Sam wiped his eyes and attempted a grin "Must be the rain."

****

"Why did they stop?"

They had risen from the ground, walking back towards the Impala, Sam supporting his brother who actually allowed the help. A sure sign that he was hurt. _Of course he is hurt. He was nearly ripped apart... Again. _Dean was limping, but so was Sam whose knees were torn and bloody from the slide to his brother's side. When they reached the car, they started to inspect the injuries.

Apart from a nasty bite in his calf, Dean had been lucky. He would probably be stiff and covered in bruises tomorrow, but no severe damage had been done.

Well, except to his clothes. They hung in shreds, his jacket was an ensemble of straps, held together only at the seams. His suit-pants didn't look much better, the legs were ripped and when he moved you could see his skin and sometimes a glimpse of his boxer-shorts.

Both Winchesters shivered from the adrenalin slowly leaving their bodies. And from the cold. They were soaked. Not one single spot remained dry; they were completely wet and the chill went right through to the bones.

"Someone called them. With a whistle. Didn't you hear it?"

"No, I was kinda distracted. Who can call ghost-dogs with a whistle?"

"Don't know, not for sure. I'll have to look in some books, maybe call Bobby. But first – ", Sam crouched, carefully lifting the bloody trouser-straps from his brother's lower leg, "first we get this cleaned up and looked at by someone. You definitely need stitches and we don't have any tetanus-shots in the first aid kit."

"That someone can take a look at your knees as well. You have gravel sticking in them!"

"Yeah, it hurts"

Dean laughed out, wincing a little.

"At least we don't need some complicated explanation. Dog-attack is a pretty common reason for visiting a hospital. Or so I'm told."

"Yah... Who is driving?"


	5. Chapter 5

_Hello again. This time I have a longer chapter - hope you enjoy it. I would be thrilled to get a tiny review, even a little one. But as long as someone is reading, I'll post on.

* * *

_

When they returned from the hospital it was already dark. They had had to wait for four hours, sitting in between a group of Klingons which had had a disagreement with some Cardassians – or whatever. They had been bleeding, and shouting and waving weapons even in the waiting area of the hospital, and it took some time for the security to sort them out.

When it was finally the hunters turn to be treated, the doctor – a young guy probably just out of his residency, bloodshot eyes suggesting he hadn't had much sleep the last ten years – had looked at them and said nothing – not a single word – when he stitched up Deans calf. He had wrapped the dressing tightly around the wound and didn't react to the sudden intake of breath the hunter hadn't been able to suppress when the bandage was being pulled still tighter. In the next cubicle, Sam's knees had been looked at by a pretty, dark-haired nurse, who had smiled at him a lot while gently picking the tiny gravel-pieces from his kneecaps.

Dean had been given a tetanus-shot, some painkillers and a disapproving look that clearly said 'Wussy' when he winced.  
Sam had been given a friendly smile and a phone-number.

"I feel like an icicle" Sam shivered in the motel room.

"Look who's talking. You didn't have to sit with this cold creep of a doctor. How can they allow someone with so icy hands to work on a patient?" Dean tried to take off his jacket without actually moving. He was stiff as a plank.

"Huh, I can't complain:" His brother smiled and waved the piece of paper, where the number of the nurse was written.

"Lucky you – and let me guess, you won't call her? A total waste of ink."

"Are we Mr. Grumpy now? You're just jealous." Sam was feeling pretty good, though he still shivered from the cold. The nurse had been really, really pretty…

"Yah, yah. Good for you. I'm taking a shower!"

While Dean was in the shower, Sam took of his clothes and tried to get dry with the help of a big, fluffy towel. _The motel is crappy, but they have heavenly towels. Funny, how people set their priorities…  
_Nearly warm again, in fresh jeans and two long-sleeved shirts under a roomy sweater, he sat on his bed and switched on the computer. _Let's see what we can make of these dogs._

He had been surfing for some time when his brother reappeared from the shower.  
"Great, now I have to buy a new suit. Crap!!"

Sam snapped back from his work-mode and turned around. His ability to get completely absorbed by any given subject had helped a lot in Stanford. But sometimes it was a bit disconcerting to snap back to real life…  
Dean was leaning one-legged at his bed, holding up the pieces of cloth he had peeled off himself. Since he wore nothing but a fluffy towel, his brother was able to see the damage the dogs had done.

Angry welts covered his chest, crisscrossing down to his waist. Wherever the teeth had connected – arms, shoulders, ribs – dark-red haematomas already started to turn purple. He would look like a new-age-painting tomorrow, when the bruises started to switch from simple red to an assortment of psychedelic colours.  
From his own experience, Sam knew it took weeks for the skin to fade back to normal. Just as well the pain would be long gone by then, leaving behind only an occasional stiffness.

"I hate to shop for clothes! And look at the jacket – I liked it! Those _bitches_!"

Dean hopped on the bed and tried to wrap the bandage, which he had taken off for the shower, back around his calf. Sam was able to see the stitching and the bluish blackness spreading from the ankle nearly all the way up to the knee. _Ok, he might have an excuse for being grumpy…_

"Stop staring at me, I'm starting to feel dirty!" The younger brother hadn't noticed that he was still watching. Now he sent a wicked grin at Dean.  
"You want me to help you?" Sam asked innocently and wiggled his eyebrows. Laughing, he caught the pillow that suddenly flew across the small room.

"Stay away, you creep!" but Dean was smiling too. It was seldom enough these days that they were laughing together… Sam's smile vanished and he looked at his brother with a hint of compassion – since Dean was able to walk on his own, the big worry was not necessary.  
"Seriously: you ok?"  
"Stiff and sore, but I'll live. By the way, if we had any doubts about the origin of these … things, I can assure you: they were definitely **not** hellhounds. Totally different breed – do ghosts have different breeds anyway? Or do they all become one after death?" Even though it sounded like random rambling, Dean was really curious about that fact.

"No idea. Are you sure? I mean they looked pretty hellish to me."

"One hundred percent. Hellhounds have much more fur. And more kinky extras, like flaming breath and burning claws." He shivered only slightly, but Sam noticed anyway. He stopped his brother from unpleasant memories. Work always worked. "You wanna hear what I found out? I have some leads – which don't explain much, but it's at least something to work from."

Dean carefully searched for a comfortable position on the bed. He looked around for the pillow, didn't find it and stole Sam's.

"Shoot."

"Right. OK, there are many different legends on ghost-dogs, most of them from the British Isles. It's not certain if they originate in Celtic or Germanic mythology, but they are usually associated with death. Most of them are death-omens, some kill people by themselves and some are friendly though............."

He really wanted to listen, but Dean couldn't stay awake. The voice of his brother was pulling him slowly and inevitably to sleep.  
Sam stopped talking when he heard a soft snoring. Feeling slightly awkward, he stood and gently covered his big brother with a blanket, his eyes staying on him for a while longer, checking his breathing. Then he took his phone, left the room and called Eleanor, the nurse.

____

Dean snapped from sleep to full alert without transition. Though not intending to, John Winchester had given his kids more survival-instincts than planned – his eldest son nearly never woke with a scream, even when he had every reason to do so. As expected, Alistair had shown his ugly head and haunted his dreams.  
The hunter blinked twice and tried to get rid of the metallic taste in his mouth. He had bitten through the inside of his lips again…

From the bathroom, Dean heard his brother whistling some unrecognisable tune under the shower. The light from the curtained window suggested that it was still early and that the rain from the night before had stopped. He took a sip of water from the bedstand and lay back once more.

"Good morning, sunshine!"

"Ugh, go away." Blearily he realized that he had fallen asleep again. Not for long – but long enough to want more.

"No, no, no. Today, we'll go look at dogs. Real ones"  
"Huh? For what? Those beasts yesterday were not alive, and somehow I doubt that someone stores ghost-dogs in an animal-shelter."  
"Yes, but they were dead. If anyone knows about dead dogs, my guess is that it will be someone from the shelter. So rise, rise, rise, there is no time to waste!"  
Dean ruffled through his hair, yawned and peered at Sam quizzically.

"You seem awfully happy today."

When Sam averted his eyes and tried to look innocent, he knew.  
"You sly dog! You _did_ call her! Guess it was a _**nice**_ evening?" With a broad smile he winked at Sam, knowing full well that his brother hated it when Dean mocked him about his female acquaintances. Since it were so many… He could remember three since Jessica. Maybe while he was in Hell, but somehow he doupted it...

"Come on Dude, you cannot stay in bed all day. You'll start to smell." Sam grabbed the car-keys from the small table.  
"Where are you going?"  
"Out, I wanna try find something to eat."  
"I want apple-pie!" Sam heard his brother call after him just before the door closed.

When he came back from the bakery, Dean had had another hot shower to loosen his stiff muscles and taken some of the friendly pills from the hospital. They munched their breakfast and left. Sam was driving, since he had managed to get directions from the hot, sexy, soft, nimble,… from Eleanor yesterday.

SNSNSNSNSN

"You are FBI?"

The man from the city-dog-pound looked them over sceptically. He would have thought federal agents always wore suits, or maybe jeans and a shirt. But this…

"Don't ask, freak accident and lost luggage." Sam wore his tie, shirt and suit-jacket over clean jeans, but Dean had only had one halfway respectable shirt left – green checks on white, which didn't go all too well with his dark tie. In combination with his khaki cargo-pants – all his jeans seemed to have developed torn knees over night – he looked more like a woodcutter than a fed. The man inspected their badges again, looked at the pictures, shrugged and led them to his office. "What can I help you with?"

"We are investigating the death of six – no, seven people who seemed to have been killed by dogs, and we thought you might know something about wild dogs running around."

SNSNSNSN

"That was a total waste of time!"

"Well, at least he gave us directions to this… Teresa Barlowe. He said she knows a lot more about dogs, since her shelter is more into animal-welfare and specified in dogs. So, next stop: Oak Street."

They drove in silence, following the description out of the city, through rural terrain with only some scattered houses left and right. After 30 miles they turned right at an intersection and followed the dirt-road to a middle-sized house with a front porch and a well-kept garden. If there hadn't been a sign over the gate saying "Barlowe Dog-Shelter and Kennels", you wouldn't suspect anything but a family home. It looked friendly.

Another sign led them to a foot-path, in front of which was a small parking-area. "Dogs" stated the sign matter-of-factly, an arrow pointing the way. When they followed the track round the house to the back, they already heard the barking of several canines, how many was impossible to tell.

They came to a fence with a gate, behind which five dogs were trotting lazily through a weed-covered meadow surrounding a paved square. When they rang the bell attached to the gate, all five started to bark and two dashed around a long building, probably to the kennels. At least Sam thought so, since that was where most of the barking came from. The remaining three dogs ran to the gate and barked at the newcomers. Not friendly, but not too aggressive either.

"Hey there." Sam crouched down to appear less threatening to the four-legged guards. They were well-kept, coats not exactly gleaming but clean. Two seemed to be shepherds, the third was short-haired and looked a bit like a Dalmatian, but smaller and with big black blotches instead of dots. Instead of looking hungry, two were a little overweighed.

"Sorry, we are closed. Come back during opening hours, please." A small, thin woman in her fifties walked up to them, the other two dogs following happily.

"Yes Ma'm, we are sorry, but we are from the Federal Bureau of Investigation and wanted to ask you some questions, if it is possible?" Sam rose, wincing a little when his knees came in contakt with the pants.

"FBI? About all this people being killed? I already talked to the police – was no dog of mine, I can assure you!" Mrs Barlowe crossed her arms in front of her and walked with purpose. Nearly a prowl. It reminded Dean of their Dad. Prepared to fight.

"We never said it was. Look, we just want to talk to you, we can come back later, but it is kind of a long way…So, please?"

The woman had reached the gate. She was small, the top of her head merely reaching to Deans shoulders, and the first impression had been wrong: judging from her wrinkled and weather-beaten face, she was probably over sixty. She wore a dark green apron and a scoop in her right hand. Something unidentifiable was sticking to it. Mrs. Barlowe looked at the brothers, then down to the white-and-black dog which was wagging its tail happily.

"They all right, Marvel?" The dog looked up and gave her an expectant doggy-smile. "Oh, all right. If you must…Go, go away, honeys, let 'em in." She shoved all five dogs away with her leg and opened the gate. Surprisingly, none of the animals tried to leave the compound but waited obediently until the men had come in.

"You really ask you're dog if we can come in?" Surprised, the woman looked at Dean. "Of course! Who else should I ask? If they don't agree with you, you wouldn't have been able to enter without me bringing them to the kennel first." Proudly, she petted the dog next to her. "And since you come outside business-hours… Sorry, but can we talk while I work, I was just feeding my beasts? **SHUT UP!**"

Dean jumped when she bellowed in the directions of the kennels, where the barking actually went down some decibel. _Holy shit, she's got a voice like a drill-sergeant! Where does she store all the air in this small body?_

"Sorry, they are hungry. We are short staffed at the moment – well, we're _always_ short-staffed, but since my last help left… What is it I can help you with?" Following her around to the kennels, the brothers asked if she knew about wild dogs – or dead dogs.

"Dead ones? Why would you want to know about dead dogs?"

"We think maybe someone whose dog got killed is out for revenge, making it look like dog-attacks.", Dean lied quickly.

"Huh! Well, that's possible. Me, I would personally kill everyone who hurts my dog." Dean could only see her profile, but... _I bet you would… _

They had reached a bin filled with dog-food, surrounded by tin-bowls. She scooped some mush into one, looked around and decidedly pushed it into Dean's hands.

"Hold that for me, sugar!"

Sam grinned at his brother's surprised face and wandered along the kennels, looking at the dogs behind the barred doors. Most of them where middle-sized; some bigger, some smaller. In the third box was a Rottweiler, still with its tail complete which was wagging like a propeller. The big dog leaned against the fence, clearly inviting him to scratch its back. Sam went down and obliged.

"Ooh, you're a good boy, aren't you? Good boy…" he craned his neck to look under the animal "…sorry, _girl, _you're a good girl!"

Dean had been laden with five bowls put into each other and was following Mrs Barlowe to the kennels. She fed the dogs without fuss, while Sam still scratched the Rottweiler-lady. After the feeding, Barlowe thanked the men and finally answered the question still hanging in the air.

"Sorry, I don't know about any suspicious dog-killings. I don't think there are more than the usual shares of deaths…" She looked in the distance, her face betraying heavy thoughts.

"What is it?"

"I don't want to … You have a pen and paper?" Dean was still patting his many pant-pockets when Sam gave her his notebook. She wrote down a name of a bar and an address.

"You **don't** have this from me! Ask a bartender named Jerry about dogs, but don't specify – you might find something there." She blocked any additional question, leading them back to the gate. The five guard-dogs had been cleaning the food-bin and now followed in a run.

"Do you have a dog?" Mrs Barlowe asked Sam.

"No, never had. I wanted to, but…"

"Every kid should have a dog, it makes them more human. At least that's my experience."

*******

"_What do you want a dog for, Sammy? It will only be a nuisance!"John Winchester looked at his son in amazement.  
_"_I just… We could train it for hunting. It will be no bother, I will take care of it, I promise! Pleeeeease, Dad?"  
_"_And who will watch it when you're in school? Who's gonna walk it when we practise? I cannot look after a dog as well!"  
_"_You wouldn't have to, I promise"  
_"_And what do we do with it on the road? We can't stop every second to let it pee. No," He had held up his hand, stopping any more pleads from his eight-year old son. "No, that is my final word. Give it back to where you got it from!" _

_Sammy was holding the little black-and white puppy tightly, tears running down his face. He sooo wanted to keep it, to have something to care about. To have something on his own, to just have __**something. **But of course, his Dad couldn't understand that. Or didn't want to. _

"_Dean, take Sammy and bring this dog back to where it came from." The older boy had hesitated, looking at his brothers tears.  
_"_That was not a request, son!" _

_So they went to the farmer, Sam crying all the way. Dean had been able to get half of the money back which Sam had paid for the puppy. But the younger didn't want it back, he was shattered and just wanted to leave.  
_"_Boy, you better put it back to his brothers and sisters." The farmer was kind and understanding, but Sam couldn't stay a second longer, he was hyperventilating already, nearly choking on his tears. He shoved the warm, small dog into his brother's hands and ran out of the barn, gulping heavily in desperate search for a tissue. When he turned at the door, he saw Dean lowering the crowing doggy in the straw next to its mother._

_The puppy was happy to be back with the family, but for Sam the world collapsed._

_**____**  
_

"Your partner doesn't care much about them, right?"

Sam had been playing with Marvel absent-mindedly. Now he looked ahead at his brother, who was walking at a faster pace to the fence.  
"He had had an unpleasant dog-encounter just recently." _Which is putting it mildly._

"Oh, if I had known, I could have put the 'Glorious Five'" – she indicated the pack around them – "in a kennel. Even though I think dogs are the most marvellous creatures on earth, I'm not offended if someone thinks different."

*******

_Just when Sammy left through the barn-gate, he turned around a second time. His brother was still bent over the puppies, a small smile playing around his mouth. "Lucky you" he had whispered, just about audible. "You're probably better off somewhere else."_

"_See, I told you so!" Dean had said to the weeping boy trotting next to him when they made their way back to the motel. But Sammy hadn't been listening…_

____

"No, it's alright. He would have said if he wanted you to."


	6. Chapter 6

_Sorry, maybe someone noticed I posted one chapter twice. I found out and corrected that mistake, so don't be surprised if there seems to be one chapter less..._

_Anyway, curtain call for Sam and Dean.  
_

_Oh, I don't know about feebleness, but there might be some offending language. Just a warning..._

* * *

After they left the dog-shelter and Mrs Barlowe, the hunters drove back to the city. It was still early, much too early for a bar-visit. Just about the right time for lunch. They found a diner not too far from the motel, looking nearly as shifty as their sleeping-accommodation. But like the motel, the inside was better than the outside: it smelled heavenly of fresh waffles, steak, burgers, eggs, bacon – a cardiac-surgeons dream come true.

"What is it with this city? Everything is made to look as scruffy as possible, but when you come close, it is nearly damn perfect!"

"Maybe the locals like to hide the best places from tourists? I don't really care, Sammy – I'm starving and this is heaven."

They ordered steak and fries, sat down in a small booth at the back of the room and lowered their voices.

"OK, what did I miss yesterday?"

"Huh?" Surly Dean didn't want any details about his night with the nurse?

"You were talking about this theory and ghost-dogs before I fell asleep."

"Oh, yes, ghost dogs, right...!"

Dean smirked. "What did you think I meant?" Sam cleared his throat and sipped some water. He hated the fact that he still turned crimson whenever his brother teased about girls.

"There are many different ghost-stories involving dogs. Most of them – as I said yesterday – originate in Europe, but there are a few American ghost-dogs. There is this story about an evil farmer who wasn't even allowed to enter Hell, the devil himself rejected him…" Dean's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "…so now this man is hunting down travellers with his two wild dogs. Then there are ghost dogs which are not exactly harmful, like the dog from Meridan, Connecticut, which is just a small, sad black dog. It is supposed to bring luck if you see it once, seeing it twice is bad luck and three times means death."

"A bit like a certain rabbits-foot?"

Sam looked up, thought for a second, shrugged and went on.

"The believe that black dogs mean death and foretell catastrophes probably comes from the Celtic or the Germanic culture. Most of European mythology associates black dogs with Hell, either as guardians or as soul-hunters. You remember that the growling was louder when they had been much further away, getting more and more quiet the closer they com? That seems to be a ghost-dog-thing. The British seem to have a special liking for them. There are all kinds of Ghost-dogs in British literature…"

"Like with this Charlotte Something-or-other you mentioned?"

They both leaned back a bit when the waitress brought their meals.

"Charlotte Brontë,yes. But not only there. You remember the original Dracula-story from Stoker? There, Dracula appears as a huge black dog when he comes to England by ship. Or you might have heard about the "Hound of Baskerville"?"

"Hound off Bashkerville, thash Sherlock Holmesh, right?" Dean was munching his Steak, not caring about chewing first, speaking after. "Holy, thish Shteak is amashing! Try it."

They ate for a while, not talking about anything except occasionally asking for salt, pepper or ketchup.

"So." Dean wiped his mouth and looked for the waitress to order some coffee. "This is all very fascinating. But the big question remains: Why were they called back, why and most important _how_ can someone command them with a whistle? Is there any lore about ghost-dog-handlers??"

"I was getting to... Yes, for me too, please?" The waitress was pouring Dean coffee, looking at Sam questioningly.

"OK, there are some legends about ghosts with dogs. Most famous is the myth of the Cŵn Annwn, the "hounds of Annwn". They are part of the Welsh folklore, protecting the otherworld – which by the way is not comparable to Hell as we know it..."

_We, Sam?_

"…but more like a paradise. They accompanied ghosts and spirits which formed something called "the wild hunt". It's supposed to be something like a – well a hunt – for souls, taken place in the sky or just above ground. Seeing this "wild hunt" is said to bring destruction and death, usually there were thunderstorms following them and…."

"Sam, please cut it short! You might be surprised, but I _did_ hear about the 'wild hunt'. These dogs yesterday were nothing like it! And there wasn't even a thunderstorm. Or did I miss something?"

Sam had looked at him in astonishment. "You know about the 'hunt'?"

"Yes, of course. Just because you went to college and I didn't doesn't mean that I'm totally stupid! It was in a book somewhere – and I kind of liked the story. About 'Herne the Hunter' and all that. But as I said – that description doesn't fit yesterday's dogs."

His brother scratched his head. Dean could be such a goofball and always left the research to him; Sam sometimes _really_ forgot the older Winchester wasn't dumb. Lazy, but not dumb.

"Um, well. Yeah. I know. Ok. I was just trying to wrap it up. My theory: we have a soul-hunter. Someone – probably a spirit – is commanding these dogs to hunt people. As for **why** – I haven't got the slightest idea yet. Our whole conversation just circled around the important issue – and we're not closer to a good starting point! It's depressing, really. I have been going over the files of the deceased again – nothing that connects them. Nothing, nada, niente, rien!  
So say it's random. But if it was random – why would this hunter call them away from us? Somehow we didn't fit his hunting-profile – and I sure like to know why. Just to make sure we don't become prey again by accident."

"You got the files with you? Maybe a second pair of eyes…"

"They are in the car, I'll get them."

While Sam was out, Dean looked around in the diner. There were quite a few people there, munching more or less happily on there meals. As usual he was scanning for a hot babe, looking at one of the waitresses butt approvingly.

When Sam came back with the stack of files, Dean was already flirting heavily.

____________________________

"I'm not surprised, but you were absolutely right. No connection between them." Dean threw the file he had been reading on the table, nearly knocking over the coffee-pot. He was getting cranky since he hadn't been able to sit comfortably. For the last hour he had been shifting in his seat, trying unsuccessfully to find a position that _didn't_ hurt. Sam had noticed, but until now he had been silent about it.

"Let's get back to the motel. I could use some sleep before we look at that bar tonight."

Sam rose to pay at the counter while Dean assembled the paperwork and went out to the Impala, winking to the waitress on his way out.

SNSNSNSNSN

"Excuse me, but is this yours?"

A woman was standing beside the car when he closed the trunk. She wore a red and black outdoor-jacket, dirty jeans and work boots. Dean recognized her from the diner. He had noticed her fleetingly when they had entered, but she hadn't been worth a second look.

Now she was holding a wallet out to him and grinned apologetically. He patted his pockets – it was his.

"Hey, how did you get this?!"

He was really, really pissed now; the fact that she had a dog sitting next to her didn't improve his mood. Everywhere he looked, there were dogs! At least this one wasn't very threatening: it was a terrier, not even knee-hight, mostly white with dark brown ears and a light brown blotch on his back. Its dark eyes sparkled with mischief.

"I'm sorry, I really am. Look, there is nothing missing, I promise. You can look. I never opened it!"

"Then why did you steal it?" Patience was just not his thing, right now...

"I didn't steal it! Don't snap at me, Mister, you have no reason to be so pissed!"

"My purse doesn't just jump out of my jacket on its own accord, _lady!_" How anyone could put so much disgust in the word was beyond her imagination. She inhaled to shoot back at him with the same venom when Sam arrived.

"Hey, what's going on?" he tried to quieten down the argument. From afar it had looked as if Dean was going to hit the girl. Or maybe she was going to hit him – wasn't easy to discern from across the parking lot.

"I said I'm sorry!"

"She stole my wallet!"

"I did **not!**"

There was heavy tension in the air, both shooting looks that were able to drop someone dead. On the spot.

"Okay okay, is something missing? Dean?!"

Muttering obscenities, Dean looked, counting the money extra thoroughly on purpose. Even the small change.

"No." he had to admit in the end.

"So – no harm done." Sam looked at the woman, begging her to let any comeback rest. She did and didn't.

"I told you, it wasn't me. I try my best, but Gaspode somehow can't shake his habit."

"Gaspode?" Dean looked at her, still mad. "Who is Gaspode?"

"Him." She indicated the dog next to her, which sat innocently by her leg, trying to look inconspicuous.

"Your _**dog**_ stole my wallet? What are you, nuts??! You don't think I believe this shit, do you?" Green eyes sparkled with new-ignited anger. And Sam had to admit the concept of a wallet-stealing dog was crazy. Not that they hadn't encountered still crazier things, but...

The girl looked at him, looked at Dean and said "Fetch".

Gaspode jumped up and grabbed the purse from Dean's hands before he was able to store it in his pocket.

"Holy…"

"That's amazing!" Sam was thrilled. Dean still had his mouth open, looking at the small dog presenting his wallet to its owner, tail wagging happily. He put his head in his hands, rubbing his face wearily.

Sam crouched down again – _You would think his knees don't hurt at all! _– talking to the dog. And its owner.

"How did you teach him? And why?" He was smilig and petting Gaspode, looking happy and relaxed. But even the sight of his little brother appearing and pushing the demon-hunter away into hiding couldn't keep Dean from feeling miserable right now.

"I didn't. He is from the street, when I found him he could already do it. I just can't quiet make him stop. The only thing I taught him is to bring the wallet to me – at least that way I can give it back."

She shot a disapproving look to Dean, who was leaning on his car, elbow on the roof, one hand supporting his head. _I feel like shit, please Sammy, get her number and let's go._

"That is so cool – hey, maybe we knew his former owner!"

"Really?"

"Really?" Dean tried to sound bored – no, he _was_ bored. He wanted one of those pills and his bed…

"Bela?" Sam looked up and winked at his brother who averted his eyes.

"Maybe…" He didn't want to think about Bela. He still felt miserable about her. He hadn't been able to figure her out before it was too late. Before he had met her again.

Down there…

When he…

He swallowed the memory and the bad taste that had started to form in his mouth. _Damn it, Sammy! How do you always hit the worst possible spot? And don't even notice… _

But the girl noticed.

She looked at both brothers, the tall one playing with Gaspode, not realizing the discomfort the name had caused, and the other one. In the chequered shirt, looking like death warmed over.

When she cocked her head at him like a bird that had spotted something interesting, Dean looked up and their eyes met.

* * *

Just in case you wander: I borrowed the dogs name. From where? If you don't know, you have missed great literature. I might answer a question about it - if you ask me.*wink*

Like, in a review...


	7. Chapter 7

There was no blinding light, no burning desire. No hint of lust or sudden flashes of love on first – or second – sight.

There was just a quiet, silent understanding. A small, friendly smile played in the corner of her mouth, slowly spreading to her eyes. It was enough to smile back. Dean slowly shook his head, wearily rubbing his hand over eyes, nose and chin.

"Are you with your own car, or can we drop you off somewhere?" His voice was tired and rough, but he meant what he said. He stored the wallet she had been holding out to him back in his pocket.

"Really, would you? I mean, if it is not too much bother, that would be great. Thank you!"

Sam unfolded himself from his crouch, wincing slightly when his knees hurt again. He looked puzzled at the sudden mood-swing, but smiled and opened the passenger rear door for her.

"I'm Sam Winchester, the grumpy one is my brother Dean."

"Mike."

"Your Name is '_Mike'?_?!!" Greenish eyes turned dinner-plates in a tired face.

"So?"

"But you _are _female?" Dean looked her up and down.

"You have _such_ a talent for words, Mister. Did anyone ever tell you?"

Sam's grin was nearly splitting his face. "Come on, don't mind him. He has a bad-hair day."

She climbed in, Gaspode following on the spot. Dean took the passenger-seat, looking over his shoulder, grimacing when he saw the dog on the upholstery

"Sorry" Mike grinned and pulled the terrier on her lap.

***

"So, where do we drop you off?" Sam asked.

They had been driving in silence, Dean just gritting his teeth so as not to swear whenever the Impala hit a pothole. _Man, doesn't he notice that my baby doesn't like that? Why is he driving that way? _He looked ahead, taking in the road-condition. _OK, the tarmac is crap. But still! _

A quick glance in the right outside-mirror showed the person on the backseat. Mike was looking out the window, her face relaxed. Still the small smile remained, even though she didn't seem to realize it. Her eyes were watching something far away in the distance.

She wasn't hot. Far from it.

Her shoulders were broader than they should have been and she had too much weight on her. Her tits were – well, not really visible under the jacket, but he suspected them to be small. At least there was no hint of them being bouncy or juicy, the way Dean liked it. Her ass hadn't been visible, the parka nearly reaching down to her knees. It was a useful piece of clothing, keeping the person inside dry and warm. It was not meant to attract men, and it didn't.  
Her hair was darkish. Neither blonde nor brown, something uninteresting in between. Maybe grey? They were short – just covering the ears – and scrubby. It didn't look as if she spent much time with a brush. There was no makeup, not even eyeliner, probably not even lip-gloss. _What self-respecting woman doesn't wear makeup?_ The face wasn't bad, but it wouldn't even come close to winning a beauty-contest.

Her eyes were something though. Even in the small mirror he could see them. They were bluish-grey. A broad dark circle encompassed the iris, making good the unimpressive colour. And there was this spark to them. Like he had seen in the dog's eyes, there was unspoiled fun and happiness behind the pupils.

He winced when they hit another pothole.

_Damn, how can it hurt so bad? I was tortured by demons and now I'm complaining about a lousy dog-attack? They didn't even bite me that much – suck it up and stop being such a wimp!_

"So, what is it you guys are doing around here? I mean, you don't exactly look like tourists."

"Road-trip" Dean answered curtly before Sam could say anything. He was resting his head on the backrest. _He looks like he is in pain…_

"Oh, ok." She took the hint, didn't say anything again except giving directions for Sam.

***

"So, that's it." They had stopped at a five-story tenement, somewhere nearly downtown. It wasn't exactly shady, but close enough.

"Let me guess? It's better from the inside?"

"Why do you ask, Sam? You want an invitation, I have to disappoint you: not without a propper date!" _Might make an exception for his brother, though…._Sam turned slightly pink. "No, actually I'm having a theory about this city, just wanted to know if it works with this house too…"

She looked at him quizzically, then shook her head. "No, except for my own apartment, it is pretty grubby inside. Could have been worse, but still – not exactly 'Better Living'-material. Sorry." She grinned, opened the door and let Gaspode jump out first.

Dean had been watching the building from the corner of his eyes, the head still on the seat. There were some not-so-nice-looking guys standing on the other side of the road, watching them.

"You gonna be alright?" he asked now, cocking an eyebrow at the men. Mike followed the hint, smiled and waved at the men.

"You know them?" Sam was watching too.

"Nope. Never seen 'em before. But it always pays to be friendly" she winked. "And of course I have my fearless guardian." She indicated Gaspode with her head.

Sam looked dubiously at the dog. _Okay, he could steal their wallets… _"At least let me walk you to your door."

"Sweet, but unnecessary. I'll be perfectly safe. And by the way…" they had taken two, three steps away from the car when she lowered her voice "…I think you should better get your brother in a horizontal position. He looks a bit pale around the nose. Bye, Sam."

Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean. She was right; he didn't look too good… When he turned around, Mike was already gone.

"Bye…"

***

"Maybe we should skip the bar tonight." They were back at the motel.

"Dude, I'm fine! And I want to get this gig done as quickly as possible! I'll have a nap, take some nice, friendly sweets" – grinning, he shook the bottle with painkillers –"and I'll be fine for a bar-brawl. Don't worry!"

_Don't worry, don't worry...No, I won't worry. Why should I? He was nearly ripped to shreds – again. He didn't have to see himself like that, not yesterday, not then. So why the fuck should I worry about you… Huh, tell me Dean: why should I worry! _

Sam kicked the bed – hard – when his brother was heading for the bathroom.

* * *

The "Theodore's Bar and Grill" was nothing like the usual places they hung out. There were a lot of red and green leather-seats – real leather! – and it was spotless. The lighting alone would head up an impressive electricity-bill, the bar was long and seemed to be made of mahogany. It was classy: there was no sawdust on the floor.

And it was filled with yuppies.

"Man, I feel so _wrong_ here!" Everyone around them seemed to have come straight from a business-meeting, shirt and tie still in place, the jacked over the seats the only concession to the late hour.

"On the other hand…" Dean had spotted a very pretty blonde, who was talking to a not-too-bad-either redhead. Inevitably, he drifted closer.

"Dude, _work!_"

"Aw, no fun at all…"

These two would be _way_ out of Dean's league… Sam went to the bar and asked for Jerry. The guy behind the counter pointed him to another guy, a few yuppies further down.

"You Jerry?" The bartender was average in every way. Average weight, average hair, average height – you get the picture. He was concentrating on filling two curiously decorated high-stemmed glasses with something blue.

"Yes, what can I get you?"

"Nothing, thank you. But we were told to ask you about dogs."

Now Jerry looked up and took in the guy in front of him: tall, slender, clean-shaven and mildly underdressed. But not so bad as to draw attention.

"Oh, really? Who told you?" His voice was low and everything bout him screamed 'suspicious!'.

"Enrice." Sam could lie pretty good too.

"Who?" Uncertain.

"You know, Enrice! He said you would remember him, remember him well…" It was all about faith. Believe the lie - everyone else believes it as well.

"Oh, yeah, sure. Ok, wait." Jerry probably didn't know anyone called Enrice, but how could he be certain… He turned away and came back a second later with a small card.

"Here is the address. Time and date are on the back." He gave the card to Sam. Reluctantly, Sam filled his outstretched palm with fifty bucks and drifted away from the bar.

The date on the card was tomorrow's, the address was unknown to him. Time was 11 pm.

Well, if he called it a day he could actually meet with Eleanor. She had her day off tomorrow, and it had been fun yesterday…He turned around to look for his brother.

_I'll be damned!_

Dean was chatting with the two women. Both didn't look in the least bored or uncomfortable, clearly liking the company of this charming scruff muffin who was telling them lie after lie.

_Hell, they probably earn more in a week than he ever possessed – I can't believe this! _Some days he was jealous of his brother's ease to sweet-talk any woman in the vicinity. But not now, right now the thought of his nurse was making him mellow. He drifted over to the three.

"Excuse me, ladies, I have to borrow you're friend for a second!"

"Hey, I was just getting started!" Dean was reluctant to move away from his conquest. "The blonde is Samantha, she just escaped a boring marriage and needs some consolation. You could…"

"Sorry, but I wanna leave. And no, I don't want to spend the night with my laptop. So, how about we meet in the motel?"

Dean cocked an eyebrow at Sam. _Well-well-well, Sammy. Getting laid doesn't seem to be such a bore to you anymore… I'm just not sure if I should be happy or worried..._ He decided to stick with 'happy', at least for tonight.

"Great, cool. See you tomorrow. Oh, what about this Jerry-guy?" Sam showed him the card with date and time. _Even better, a whole evening and a whole day for leisure! Maybe this gig isn't so bad after all…_

Sam left, on his way out already searching his phone for Eleanor's number.

SNSNSN

It had promised to be a successful night; the ladies had been more than interested. Both. But somehow at around eight, they had wanted to leave for another bar and Dean had gotten the impression that he wouldn't be able to afford the drinks there. Not that the women – they were far too high in social status to be called 'girls' – had hinted anything. But the way they had drunken one expensive cocktail after another without ever checking the price was a sure give-away. Anyway, how much fun can you have, sleeping with a drunken corporate lawyer? So Dean had bullshitted about some important business and bunked.

Sam had taken the Impala, he couldn't believe he had actually _given_ him the keys!

_Great, walking is __**just**__ what I want right now…_ Checking his wallet for cap-money, he bumped into someone.

"Sorry... Hey, is that you?" He was surprised when he recognized Mike.

"Same to you – what are you doing here? Don't take this wrong, but somehow this establishment doesn't exactly match your profile…"

"Look who's talkin'." A grin threatened to break his comfortable grumpiness.

"Hah, I have the advantage of **not** coming out of there." Mike indicated the bar with her thump. "The only 24-hour-store anywhere near my place is just around the corner." She held up a shopping bag.

"Your place is somewhere close? I thought this was the high-society-quarter."

"Well, _thank you!" _She was grinning to take off any edge that could have slipped into her words. Where it would have had every right to be…"It is. But as with all quarters anywhere – there is always an end to them somewhere. My building is about 45 minutes walk away."

"You walk for nearly an hour to go shopping??" Dean was shocked.

"No, you jerk! I usually shop somewhere close by. But I ran out of tomatoes and I don't _mind_ using my legs." It went on like this. Easy banter, nothing serious, verbal punches thrown and received – yet none of them took anything to heart and nothing was meant to hurt. She was easy to talk to. Funny and witty, as smart-mouthed as himself, never shy saying what went through her head. Dean never noticed how far they had walked together already.

"What is it you do? I mean, when you are not road-tripping?" Inevitably, this question would come. It usually did.

"My whole life is a road-trip." _Hold it: where did that come from? _Somehow, his protective wall must have been breached – and he didn't even notice?

"How come?"

"That…That did come out wrong. I'm actually..." Quick thinking. He was good at that. He could lie to a cabbage, make it believe it was a rose.

"Stop!" She held up her hand. "If you don't wanna tell, don't tell. But don't try to sell me a stupid lie – I wouldn't believe it anyway." Well, so much for cabbage… Dean smiled to himself and changed the subject.

"Where is Gasprom?"

"Gas**pode**! He is at home, probably on the couch, which is strictly off-limits to him. At least when I'm looking" Mike winked and smiled – again.

_How can anyone be so happy?_

"How come you are so happy?" Again: not what he intendet to say. Or did he?

"Don't know, I just am. Most of the time… Why?" Her grey eyes fixed on his profile.

"Just curious…I don't meet too many happy people. So nothing … bad ever happened to you?" _Dean, what's wrong? You sound like Dr Freud or something…_

"What is this, a therapy-session?" Apparently, she had noticed too. "Lots of not so nice things happened. Probably nothing _really_ bad: my parents were friendly enough, my boyfriends were boring but easy to shed" she grinned wickedly "and I liked my job. So, depending on your definition of 'bad', I was probably quiet lucky."

"Hmm…"

"Are you going to explain this strange question, or is it just another part of the big 'Dean-mystery'?"

He looked down in her dark-rimmed eyes and wished … he didn't know what he wished for. Just – something. Maybe that she could understand without him explaining, maybe…Just maybe.

And she did. Not to full extend. No one could and should understand everything about him. But something seemed to have passed from his eyes to her. She cocked her head again, like she had done at the diner's parking lot. And she smiled that small smile. Again he wasn't able to resist a small smile himself.

"All right. I won't ask again."

That was that, and she never did.

They had been walking for a while, not saying much. Somehow, the usual awkwardness when nobody said anything didn't come up – they just walked without talking.

They passed few people. Block by block, the walkers changed. Had it first been late-night-strollers and couples holding hands, there were now mostly men, walking alone or in groups. The only females out were hookers, looking for prey.

"Well, this is one thing that gets me pissed!"

Dean turned around, he had been multitasking again: at once checking out what the street-girls had to offer and scanning the road and the alleyways for possible threats. Now he followed her nod to a man who was walking a dog._ Another dog…_

"What do you mean?" He couldn't see a problem with this guy, and the dog seemed to be harmless. It was something big and dark – maybe a Doberman, but Dean didn't know enough about breeds to be sure. Not that he wanted to. He knew Rottweilers. Bobby liked them. That was about all he knew.

"I've seen him walking with his animal a few times now. He only takes him to the nearest place where the dog can relief itself and than he goes straight back home. Look how the poor thing is walking? He kicks him, I've seen it. And I'm not talking about a friendly nudge here. The way he treats his animal – he should be in jail! I've seen the dog limp so badly, it could hardly stand – not to mention pee. You wanted to know what makes my smile disappear? Guys like **this **do!"

Her voice had gotten cold and harsh; she didn't bother to speak quietly. If the guy heard didn't matter in her world. There was such venom behind her words, it made Dean shiver slightly. Her eyes had turned to ice, freezing and angry. He could hardly believe that this was the funny companion he had been goofing around with a few minutes ago. She started to cross the street, ready to punch the man, when Dean grabbed her arm.

"What!" She hissed at him and he let go, raising his palms outstretched to alley her anger.

"Sorry, but I don't think it would be a good idea to confront him right now. You know, I'm not in the condition to help you if he starts swinging. Not to mention the dog…"

Slowly the fury left her face, her eyes turning to a warmer shade of grey. "Sorry, you're right. I wasn't thinking." Her voice was still chilly, though. She turned around and walked on, Dean trailing a half-step behind.

After a few steps, she turned and smiled apologetically.

"You know what guts me? This dog of his – don't matter how bad he treats it, don't matter how much he kicks it – it will fight to its death to defend him. Because it is its nature, that's what it was bred for: defend your master – no matter what. It makes me wanna scream."

Where there had been anger before, there was now only a deep sadness in her eyes.

"You really care a lot about dogs, don't you?" Dean was a bit surprised, he'd never typed her as a radical animal-saviour. Hadn't typed her as anything, really…

"I like them. I like the way they never ever try to cheat you. You see a friendly dog, you can be certain that it **is** friendly, not just pretending to be. Mind you, you have to know their language to really tell if they _are_ friendly, but they never bullshit you like a human could. They don't lie, they just are."

They continued the walk in silence for a while.

"What about you? You don't like them, right?" Mike was studying his profile.

"I wouldn't say I don't like them. I just had some very unpleasant encounters with them – and not so many friendly ones." He turned and stunned her with a sudden grin. "Must be a special skill I have."

"Really, did a dog bite you??" Dean actually laughed out loud. _That is the understatement of the year! _"Yeah, you could call it that."

"Recently?" She studied him closely, remembering the grumpiness and pain that had played on his face earlier that day, taking in the slight limp.

"Yepp. Yesterday."

"Oh……What…"

"Nothing! I didn't do anything to them. They just attacked." He had guessed her unfinished question correctly. She might have looked a little sorry for thinking it, but it could have been just the street-light.

"Sorry to hear that." Mikes voice was low, nearly a whisper. He waved her concern aside, Wnchester-mask in place and 'I'm-fine'-voice already at work. "Don't worry, I'm sure I will survive. It's just not a very nice experience. Did you ever get bitten?"

"Hell, yes! A lot, actually. I used to work with – well let's call them "problematic dogs". They are angry and scared, and they only know how to bite. So yeah, I know how it feels, basically. But I guess we are not talking about the simple "oops, my hand"-kind of bite, right?"

"No." He didn't say more, but the way he shifted his shoulders and absentmindedly rubbed his chest made it unnecessary.


	8. Chapter 8

"So, that's it. Thanks for the company."

Surprised, Dean looked up. They had reached her tenement without him realizing it. After the dog-conversation they had started to talk about the hookers around them, Mike giving very astute commentaries to the girl's non-existent clothing, hairdo and shoes. She was quite catty, and after a while Dean had joined in the banter. She knew he checked them out and asked which one he would actually chat up if they hadn't been professionals. It had been fun and he was really sorry that their walk had come to an end.

He felt awkward, not wanting to leave right now and not knowing how to ask if he could come up… He didn't want sex, just more of the good time they were having. But if she expected something else…

Unlocking the front door, Mike watched him, in a way aware of his line of thinking. She could read him like a book – but when he sheepishly bit his lower lip after moistening it with just the tip of the tongue, she whimpered inwardly. _Come on, be serious! He doesn't want you. _She sighed_. Who cares – just being close a little longer will do… Has to…_

"You had dinner already?"

Dean blinked; he had just come to the conclusion that it would be better to leave than make her hope for something that wouldn't happen.

"Uh, no. But I…"

"Come up for a snack? My stomach is growling already – and I have walked _miles_ for these tomatoes. No strings attached – promise!"

The hunter cocked his head and lifted his right eyebrow in amusement. She was giving him the opportunity for fun without getting naked, and he was damned if he let it slip away. Smiling, he held the door to let her go first.

"Gaspode won't mind?"

"Since it is _my_ apartment, his approval is not necessary. If he complains, he can sit outside. But he won't – he will never leave a place when cooking is in progress." They had to walk up right to the top-floor, 'elevator' not being part of the landlord's vocabulary. Dean was a little impressed as how well sho took the stairs and that she wasn't even breathing hard. Of course he didn't either, but… she _did _look a little chubby.

The little dog was waiting expectantly at the door, looking innocent as always. But when Mike pointed to the couch, Dean noticed the white hairs scattered on the dark cushions. She winked and threw her jacket on a chair near the door. With a nod, she suggested to him to do the same.

After a short pet, Mike sent the dog to his basket and led her visitor to a small but clean kitchen, pointing out "Living-room: right, bathroom: left, bedroom: off-limits!" on the way.

She put the shopping-bag on the table, grabbed a chopping board and put it on the table. Then she took an onion from a basket, placed it on the board and pulled a knife form a drawer.

"You know how to handle this? Small chops." She caught him looking awkwardly from the knife to the onion and back again.

"Don't tell me you never cut an onion!"

"Uhm, actually, it never came up…"

"Huh. Do you need a drawing? Cut it in half, peel off the dark layer and chop. No PhD required." Dean sat down and gave it a shot while Mike worked with a pot and a pan, cutting the tomatoes and some green vegetable he had never encountered before.

"That alright?" Dean blinked back the tears from his eyes. She came over, checking his onion-chops.

"That'll do nicely. Stop!" He froze. She took his hands away from his eyes when he started to wipe them with his hand. "Don't use the hand, go rinse them with cold water."

When he came back still sniffing and snivelling, the water was boiling and mouth-watering smells drifted out of the kitchen.

"Another unpleasant task for me??" Dean asked, watching her wipe a tomato-stain on her forhead. He suspected – correctly – that she had given him the onion on purpose.

"No, thanks. It won't take long - feel free to loll."

Not needing to be told twice, he went to the living-room, eyebrows raised when he noticed rows and rows of paperbacks on the shelves.

Dean fell on the couch, found the remote and switched on the TV, zapping through the channels without paying much attention. When his brain realized what had just passed, he zapped back to the skin-flick. A look over his shoulder – Mike was still busy in the kitchen. With a lopsided grin, he settled on the couch and put his feet on the table.

„You actually watch this?"

Caught out, Dean quickly removed his feet from the table and tried to switch to another channel. Of course the remote did everything **but** change the station… and the naked girl on the screen kept on licking the sturdy man in front of her.

Before he could come up with a lie, she sat next to him – not too close – handed him a beer and put her feet on the table as well.

"I always thought it is a myth that men enjoy stuff like that. It's ridiculous, not even a plausible fantasy. I mean, who would actually believe that a hot chick like that would dream of banging the plumber on the kitchen-floor? You ever done that? It is fucking uncomfortable! Your pelvis is always colliding with the tiles and your ass gets cold. And it does so **not** improve when you're on top. It gets even colder there! And then the cast – I mean, ever seen a plumber recently? And what's more important: smelled?? No one who spends his life literally in the gutters is worth even considering a fuck! At least not when he is working. I mean, sure some women get bored at home, but there **is** a limit to boredom."

Dean peered at her from the corner of his eyes, secretly checking her crotch. _No, she's definitely a girl…_

"What, you mean the stories are not real?" He turned to look at her, pretending to be shocked. "You mean housewives do _not_ want to jump the gardener every time they see him?"

"Ok, a gardener is a different matter altogether. And don't get me started on woodcutters! The smell of fresh wood, resin and chainsaw-oil gives me the shivers. I could imagine a hot fling with a woodcutter …" Her voice trailed off and she took a sip.

"You actually spend some time thinking about sex-flicks, don't you?"

"Well, I get bored too." Mike turned to the man next to her and gave him a wicked grin "And I always get a laugh out of them. Sometimes it even beats _King of Queens._"

"Impossible! _No one _beats Doug! _May_be Tim Taylor._" _Mike choked and coughed, spitting beer over the couch table.

"Definitely. _Home Improvement_ is absolutely fantastic!" They clinked the beer-bottles and started talking about TV-shows. When a clock beeped somewhere, Mike walked to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder: "Food is finished, and I'm starving."

He followed, taking the plate she offered him. It was filled with steaming pasta and an interesting assortment of vegetables in a red sauce. It smelled fantastic.

They ate in front of the TV, munching happily without talking. It is not that eays to eat spaghetti an a couch-table, but they managed juyt fine.

"That was really, really good. Thanks." Dean leaned back, his head on the backrest. "I can't remember the last time a girl cooked for me." _We never actually eat…_

"Glad you liked it. Another beer?" He nodded.

When she came back, he had changed to another channel – _M*A*S*H _-reruns. She joined and they watched in easy companionship.

After the show, a monster-movie came on. Some b-movie with stupid girls running **up** a building to escape a madman with an axe. Or something like that – the plot was so twisted, they couldn't keep track.

"This sucks – who would be that stupid??" Mike was now leaning on the side-rest, legs pulled up, her shoeless feet nearly touching Dean's thighs. He didn't mind.

"You would be surprised; people do a lot of stupid things when it comes to monsters." He looked at her, following her legs with his eyes. They were nice legs.

"Yes, but come on – this is just unrealistic! Why stop and scream – run, you bitch!"

He grinned at her anger. "You know it's not a documentary, right?"

"Yeah, but it pisses me off to see these clichés. I mean, the girls always do the worst possible thing, run in the wrong direction and always, _always_ scream when they find a corpse. Why don't they ever show a girl just being shocked to silence??"

Dean chuckled. "For once, they _are_ girls."

"Hey!!!!" Playfully Mike kicked his thigh and he grabbed her foot. Without thinking she kicked more, wriggling when he held it tight and started to tickle. One kick drove home, she had hit one of his bruises and he gasped sharply. At once she stopped, skittering to the opposite side of the couch, pulling up her legs so as not to touch him again. Dean held his side and grimaced.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, really…I..."

Dean held up his hand, rubbing the sore spot with the other one.

"No, it's alright. I'm fine. Just give me a second…" When he looked up he saw the concern in her eyes. Without thought or warning, he grabbed her leg and pulled her closer. Mike squealed and laughed, hitting back – with the flat of her hands this time. He grinned and caught them, first the right one, then the left. Holding her wrists tightly, he pinned her arms to the couch, smiling down at her. She wriggled but didn't really stand a chance – the hunter was too strong and when he sat on top of her legs, she was helpless.

Her heart nearly skipped a beat when their gazes met, his eyes filled with an unspoken question. She swallowed and smiled back at him, relaxing her struggle. Mike couldn't believe it when he leaned closer and kissed her lightly on the mouth.

_Duh_ was all her brain came up with. Then it posted an 'Out of order'-sign and left the reins to instinct.

Dean let go of her wrists, kissing her harder, tenderly biting her lips. She responded, kissing him back, her arms now wrapped around his neck. Her breath came faster and her hands couldn'd stay away from him. They wanted to feel him, greedily they crawled underneath his green shirt, trying to capture as much of the warmth he was emanating as possible. His own hands were everywhere, stroking her through the loose t-shirt she wore, sometimes finding their way under it. The sensation of his skin on hers was unbelievable and she gasped.

He stopped, looking down in her grey eyes and smiled invitingly.

"Bedroom still off-limits?" he whispered in a voice that was giving her goosebumps of sheer pleasure.

Not able to utter even a single word, she shook her head, slowly and inevitably drowning in his gaze. He pulled her up, retreating from her while kissing, making her rise with him to keep the connection to his lips.

She still couldn't let go, now that they were upright it was easy for her to shed his shirt, stroke his bare forearms, run her fingers along his spine through the thin grey t-shirt he wore. He gently grabbed the hair in her neck, pulling her head back and covering her throat with hot, gentle kisses. Slowly he pushed her backwards in the direction of her bedroom, his hands on her butt, on her back, flat on her belly – fingers between her slip and the hem of her jeans. She moaned softly and reached behind her to open the bedroom-door.


	9. Chapter 9

_Okay, folks. hope I still have some readers (I know, you're out there! I'm thrilled to see I have been put on favorite-lists. Thank you, guys! *makes kissing sounds*)_

_Sorry, Real life... well, you know how it is._

_So, still don't own them, but had LOADS of fun writing this part. Um, guess maybe some warning:_

_Dean is having Sex. And we're invited to read about it - just don't touch, and do not disturb..._

_So, if anyone is offended (or thinks I have to upgrade my rating), please let me know. I personally prefer emotion to porn, so I'm not overly graphic, but since I don't know you..._

_If you don't want to read, ignore the part in between the single ' * '._

_Otherwise - enjoy!_

_Oh, if you have no idea how the song __"You're gonna go far, kid" from The Offspring sounds, I recomend you listen to it first. It is not essential, but... Well, lets just say that there is no better song to be sang in the shower ..._

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He liked sex. Always had. Every second of it – including the part where his role was to give more than take.

It was a bit like hunting – first you find the weak spot, the rest was easy. And he was an exceptionally skilled hunter…

In the first years of his adolescence he hadn't really bothered to think about the female beneath – or above – him. But years of practise had changed that. He had gotten bored with the "take off clothes, to bed – in and out – back to the shady motel" routine. As sad as it sounded – sleeping next to a girl was light-years better than sleeping alone and waiting for his Dad, listening to the snoring of his brother. And if she had fun in bed, sleeping over was a certainty…

Somehow they had reached the bed, kneeling on the mattress. Mike was shirtless, her arms and neck were tanned, but where the shirt had been her body was nearly untouched by the sun. Still, she wasn't pale, the tone of her skin more tending to a light gold. He took in every inch of skin, drinking her in with his eyes. There were scars – dog-bites and scratches, she had told him about them. She felt naked and exposed – an yet it was perfect. He looked at her as if she were a goddess. Like a painting, or a thing of pure beauty. And she had never been looked at by anyone like this.

His hands wandered down her waist, barely touching. She _did_ have a bit more …skin… than most of his girls, but she also had quite some muscles beneath it. She felt just great. Soft and strong at once.

Mike's hands were under his shirt, pushing it higher until he raised his arms so she could remove it. She kissed the skin on his neck, her hands slowly and gently sliding down his ribs, feeling every single one. His lips moved down between her breasts. Expertly he opened her bra without looking – he didn't see the way it made her smile. After a lifetime of hunting, there wasn't much lingery that held any mystery for him.

It didn't take long for her to see the handprint. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the subtle change in him. He was getting tense, not relaxed anymore as if he expected a question he didn't want to answer – and so she left the strange scar alone, moving over it as if she hadn't seen. After a short while, his concentration was fully back on getting her out of her jeans…

*

His hand hovered over her naked body, never quite touching her. He only moved the fine hairs on her skin, making her shiver. She leaned into his touch, trying to feel his skin – but he didn't let her, moving his hand away whenever she came close. Her breathing got even faster.

When she moaned silently, he gave in, kissing her neck and moving down. Slowly his tongue circled her nipples – his teeth touching but not quite biting. She sighed and tried to shove him further down. Again he ignored her wish, starting to kiss her shoulder instead. He looked up into her eyes and directed his lips closer to her breasts. He placed one hand under her shoulder; the other one was moving downwards, stopping at her pelvis and sneaking between her skin and the bed-sheets.

Without warning he flipped her over on her belly. She started to struggle but stopped when he began biting her neck lightly. His hands wandered again, stroking her sides, following her shape. His mouth moved deeper, his tongue exploring her spine. She moaned, biting into the pillow when his light, teasing kisses got closer to her butt. The brain refused to work with her – she was all instinct now. Like a dog in heat she moved her bottom, just wanting his kisses, wanting his tongue on her skin - wanting **him**.

Now!

Hands between her thighs, stroking the soft and sensitive skin between her legs with his thumps. When she responded with opening them wider, he moved himself closer to her, his knees left and right from her hips but not actually touching her more than necessary.

"Turn!" He whispered in the base of her neck – and she obliged. Looking up in his eyes, she twisted her body beneath him. He was above her, pinning her wrists to the bed, arms outstretched so he could look at her from above. His pupils were jet-black, his irises greener than ever, burning with desire.

_This is liquid sex…_

He moved his legs, slowly placing his knees between her thighs, one by one. The look of pure lust and wanting in his eyes was making her head spin. Still, he didn't enter her, teasing her with his erection – tickling her with featherlike touches and always _just_ missing the place where she wanted him. A small, wicked smile was playing around his mouth – he was enjoying himself, making her crazy and horny like never before.

Without a coherent thought left in her brain, Mike grabbed him with her legs, flipping him on his back, hands free, sitting on top of him now.

"No more games, Mister!" she whispered while she slowly lowered herself on him. He moaned a little and moved against her. She gasped when he entered her, held her body in the same position until he moved again. Then she let herself go.

When they had found their rhythm, he turned her on her back again, gently this time, his hands supporting her shoulders. His fingers were slowly following the outlines of her breasts, again barely touching, like the wings of a butterfly on her skin. Excruciatingly slow he moved in her, watching her pupils magnify with pleasure and desire. She grabbed his head and pulled him down, kissing him, taking in his breath, getting more demanding by the second. "More, faster, please…"

Hot kisses on her neck, her eyes, the tip of her nose. Her begging was making him even hornier, but he kept the slow movement just for the fun of it.

He was killing her, his eyes never quite leaving hers, always drinking in the way his every move played in her face. The grip with her legs got tighter; she tried to pull him closer, deeper. Her hips were moving against him, demanding, trying to accelerate the rhythm.

With her legs still wrapped around his waist he rose on his knees, keeping Mike on his lap. Now she could define the pace, arms around his neck, burying her head in the base of his neck, drinking in the smell of his warm skin, biting him a little.

She heard him moan – felt him finally quicken as well. One hand was buried in her hair, the other one was on the base of her spine, moving along it like a pianist on the piano-keys. The sensation was incredible.

With a soft growl, like the purring of a cat, she put back her head, exposing her neck. His lips were kissing the space between her collarbones, more demanding than the teasing hummingbird-kisses before.

She dug her fingers in his hair, pulling his face up. Breathing heavily, she kept his face in her hands, looking in his gorgeous eyes while waves of pleasure shook her body. She noticed his pupils widen, only seconds after her climax. Slowly laying her down on the bed again, he forcefully moved his hips once, twice before reaching his peak himself.

*

"Holy crap!" She was panting, still out of breath.

Dean smiled a little – used to such reactions. That didn't mean he didn't appreciate them… Mike looked up, a small frown playing on her face.

"Something wrong?"

"Wrong?? No way, quite the opposite… It's just…I can't really believe it. I'm not used to sleep with someone like you. Usually I get the ones who came along to accompany the hot man who wanted to bang my hot friend. So, I'm more of a substitute for the substitute."

"You don't need to be anyone's substitute. You are quite the package yourself!"

They lay on the bed; Mike's head on his chest. She was absentmindedly encircling his bruises. _He will be black and blue all over._

"Thank you…"

Her finger was following three angry dark-purple claw-induced welts that reached from his left shoulder down across his chest and belly and stopped short where the belt had protected his skin from further abuse. He shivered slightly from her touch.

"I'm sorry…"

"It's okay. I've had far worse…"

"Yeah…"She smiled up at him "Tough guy!".

"Definitely! I'm the toughest man on earth!" His grin was open and careless, when a random thought crossed his mind, it got even wider.

"I never ever would've believed it: I had sex with a 'Mike'. And I liked it – a lot!" _This would be fun to tell. Pity Sam already knows that she's a girl… _

"Michaela"

"Huh?"

"It's really Michaela. But I hate that name. Sounds so… nice, friendly, _cuddly_" she spit it out, like an insult.

"Well, you are a little cuddly… Ouch!" Mike had pinched the skin next to his belly-button.

"I'm not cuddly. I am a fearsome warrior." Smiling wickedly, she crawled over him until her face was over his.

"You probably hear that all the time, but you have gorgeous eyelashes."

Dean laughed.

"No, nobody told me _that_ before."

"Really? Well, you have."

"Hmm… So if I understand correctly, you only wanted my eyes?" He grinned and gave her a peck on the nose. "I don't mind – but my eye-lashes are not what's interested in you right now…"

She had noticed too and didn't mind in the least when he started to caress her again, paying special attention to each and every scar on her arms and legs.

SNSNSNSNSN

It seemed to be morning, but Dean wasn't really certain. He lay in a strange bed – nothing new here – and looked around. Somewhere someone was snoring softly. It seemed to come from _under_ the bed…

A look confirmed it: next to the bed was a small white dog. He grinned when he remembered last night. It had been a long time since he had had **that** much fun in bed. No, not only in bed. The whole time had been happy and carefree, no worries disturbing his mood, no nightmare haunting his dreams. He had laughed – _really _laughed – a lot, and the sex had been a bonus. _To think I didn't want to first…_

Somewhere, music was playing.

He rose from the bed, looking for his clothes. He found his boxer-shorts on the floor, luckily _not_ on the side where the dog was sleeping. His t-shirt on the other hand was beneath Gaspode – he seemed to be very comfortable on the shirt of a strange man.

Sighing, Dean left it where it was. Who knew, what kind of creepy-crawlies were in it now…

Bare-chested and barefoot, he padded through the bedroom, following the noise to the corridor. It came from the bathroom.

He knocked. No answer. So he opend the door and stared at the sight in front of him: Mike was in the shower, her back to him. The room was foggy and the air damp from the hot water glistening over her skin. Hips and feet moved with the rhythm of _The Offspring_.

_Slowly out of line  
And drifting closer in your sights  
So play it all, I'm wide awake  
It's a scene about me _

_There's something in your way  
And now someone is gonna pay  
And if you can't get what you want  
Well it's all because of me _

When the beat changed and got faster, she went with it, joining in the refrain with the same happy carelessness he had witnessed in bed. Shampoo from her hair sprayed against the glass-door of the shower-cabin when she nodded her head in accord to the drumbeat.

_Now dance, fucker, dance  
Man I never had a chance  
And no one even knew  
It was really only you_

The next passage was slower. She grabbed a brush, holding it like a microphone and gave an amazing, heartfelt playback-show: eyes closed, head thrown back so the shampoo was running down her spine, lips forming the words of Brian "Dexter" Holland but not knowing them enough to sing 'em out loud. The water was painting fabulous signs in the foam on her body, slowly sending it down to the groove between her buttocks.

_And now you lead the way  
Show the light of day  
Nice work you did  
You're gonna go far, kid_

Three heavy beats – which she punched the in air with one fist, still holding her 'microphone' in the other, shoulders and upper body falling in step with the music. Her eyes still closed she started to turn on one leg, hopping slightly up and down on tiptoes, giving a nice bounce to her breasts.

_With a thousand lies  
And a good disguise  
Hit 'em right between the eyes  
Hit 'em right between the eyes_

_When you walk away  
Nothing more to say  
See the lightning in your eyes  
See 'em running for their lives _

…

When she turned around, grinning wildly, happily, smiling like a million suns, he couldn't suppress a hungry moan. Man, she was making him **crazy!**

Mike noticed him and blushed prettily for a second until she switched her thousand-watt-smile back at him.

"Sorry, did I wake you? But this song just _has_ to be listened to on full volume!" Her hand cleared away the fog from the cabin-glass. Dean cleared his throat, his voice rough and smoky. "If it means I can watch you like this every time it's on, I don't mind at all…" he ran a hand over the back of his head and through his sleep-tousled hair, looking away shiftily.

"Care to join me?" Her invitation was open and honest, promising fun.

He bit his lower lip, pretending to think about it. "Well, if I absolutely have to…I mean, I could maybe…"

"You sure don't, but if you don't stop doing that, I will jump you right there on the tiles!"

"Doing what?" He was puzzled. In a good way, but puzzled nonetheless.

"The thing with your lips, you jerk!"

He lifted his eyebrows and grinned – still biting his lip. She opened the cabin-door and grabbed his boxers, pulling him under the hot water with her.

.....................................................................................


	10. Chapter 10

_I am thrilled. I have a review! Yeay!!!! Thank you soooooo much!!!  
_

_I promised to post soon, so I'm keeping the promise. Here it goes. _

_(Oh, there is a word in here which may or may not be considered 'dirty'. Don't be offended...)_

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
_

"You're not serious, are you?? You want to phone your _brother_? **NOW???**_**"**_

They had been lying in bed peacefully, kissing and caressing until Eleanor had moved from his chest down to his crotch, further along his thighs and started to kiss the scratches on his knees.

Though he really didn't want them to, Sam's thoughts had wandered to the night he got those, to the night he had to watch his brother being nearly ripped apart – again.

He just couldn't shake the memory of the sounds, and the pictures wouldn't stop playing in his head, mixing with another memory. Somehow he feared that everything had been a dream, a hallucination – that Dean was still dead, still in Hell…

Though Eleanor was busy trying to get his attention, he just wanted to check on him. No, he **needed** to check on him. He **had** to.

Sam jumped up, searching for his phone and his pants, where the phone was supposed to be.

The dark-haired nurse was not amused – she was understandably pissed. _What kind of freak call's his brother after a night like this?? _Sceptically, she studied him, this splendid body that had really surprised her the first night. Who would have believed that there was such a fine pack of muscles under the loose shirt? And he had not disappointed – not a single minute. Well – up until now. _Maybe he is some weirdo-psycho-nut-job, who calls his brother so they could butcher her? Or – maybe he gets off telling this guy everything? Maybe they are another kind of brother's altogether…?_

Not realizing where his strange behaviour was leading Eleanor's line of thinking, Sam dialled Dean's number. No reply, the mailbox answered. For a second, his mind screamed at him, told him to wake up, mocked him that he had been imagining things. But then the smart part of his grey matter kicked in. Dean was alive. He had to be to have a mailbox. Sam slacked and his face crumbled in relief. _Dean is probably in bed with the blonde from yesterday – or the redhead. Maybe both… _

Sighing, he put the phone down and turned around. And he felt incredebly stupid. The look on Eleanor's face was clear as day: _**Freak!!!!**_it screamed at him. Her beautifull brown eyes were wide and her finely plucked eyebrows raised in an expression of such pretty outrage and a little fear – she looked like a mouse. An sexy mouse… Sam couldn't help himself and laughed out loud. Somehow, it didn't reassure her in the least and she tried to sneak out of the bed, closer to the bedroom-door.

"Come on, you are not scared of me, are you??" Sam tried to soften his voice, fought the giggles down which were not only due to amusement but also a sign of immense relief.

"Well, let's see. I was in the middle of giving you a blowjob, and all of a sudden you want to phone another _guy_ yousay is your _brother_ – what am I supposed to think?"

Sam was genuinely puzzled. When it finally dawned on him what she meant, he was shocked and a little affronted.

"After a night like this, you really…You think I'm…? Him and me? No! I… **No!** And he **is** my brother! I mean, family-like!! I mean, just no – ugh, now you… The thought – me and him!! Ugh! Just – argh – YAK!"

Now it was her time to laugh out loud. He was so cute, outraged and butt-naked in the room, trying to shake the idea she had implanted in his brain, pacing through the room like a tiger in a cage.

_Cute __**and**__ sexy. _

"Well, sorry, but what would you have thought?!" She cocked her head and went back to the bed. "Come, stop wearing out the carpet."

Sam took her outstretched hand and let himself be dragged onto the mattress, feeling the warm skin of her breasts on his back when she leaned against him. So, at least the thoughts that were in his mind _now_ had replaced the memory of the dog-attack.

"Sorry." He turned to Eleonore, his puppy-look full in place. "Now I'm really freaked. Brrr…" He looked down on himself. „I guess we killed the mood..."

"Oooooh, poor Sam" she grinned, purring in the back of the throat. "Let me make it all better. Come here, let the doctor have a look…"

SNSNSNSN

When Mike had gone to the kitchen to prepare some breakfast, Dean noticed the phone. 'One missed call'.

They had retreated back to the bed after they discovered that bathroom-sex was not as good as it had promised to be. They've had fun, but only because they couldn't find a manageable position and Dean had slipped on the soapy tiles twice. It had been hilarious, and Mike hadn't been able to breathe when she tried to pull Dean back up after he fell on the shower-floor. Still laughing with tears in their eyes, all soapy and wet, they had left the bathroom and found themselves on the bed-sheets again…

Now Dean angled his phone and looked at the caller-ID. Sam. A peek at his watch – the call had been about an hour ago. Something happen? No, Sam would have called more often if it was an emergency.

Shrugging mentally, he dialled.

"What's up?"

"Dean?"

"Yeaah? Of course it's me. You called – what's up?"

Sam was still a bit woozy, Eleanor had pretty thoroughly taken his mind off his brother. He had completely forgotten to worry. Now he wasn't so sure what to say. 'Are you all right' seemed to be stupid – his brother was on the phone, of course he was alright. _Great. My girl thinks I'm a freak – or gay – and all for nothing. Just classy, Sam!_

"Sam?"

"Uhm… I just wanted to know if you had your key to the motel." Sam listened to the silence on the other end, glad that his borther couldn't see his face. Even the "Mighty-Demon-Slayer-Sam" was prone to turn red when embarressed.

"You're kidding, right? Of course I have. What kind of…" Dean shook his head but the delicious smells from the kitchen were distracting.

"Uhm, Sam, if that's all, here is some serious cooking in progress. I'll catch you later." He looked around the room for his shorts, remembered that they were still in the bathroom, probably still in the shower, certainly still wet.

_Great, shirt with flees, jeans without shorts! Comfy…_

***

"We should repeat this," Dean said when late that afternoon he kissed Mike goodbye at her door. She studied him, a strange little smile playing on her face.

"No, we won't."

"What?" He was surprised. It had been funny, carefree and they had had really awesome sex. Why did she say she didn't want to see him again? That usually didn't happen.

"You will go your way, and you won't call, and you will leave. That is how it will be…"

"Come on, I promise …"

"No, don't! I'm not disappointed or something – I never had that much fun in all my life! I don't regret meeting you – but as sorry as I am: this will have to stay a one-night-stand. Or better: a one-day-stand…"

Dean watched her while she said that, thinking. She was right, it had been fun. And she was also right: the fun would stop. One day – probably pretty soon - he wouldn't be able to be carefree anymore. Hadn't been able to be carefree for a long, very long time. And what made him ache for her company now might not be enough to keep any kind of connection. And he _had_ to keep hunting and do whatever Heaven or Hell put in front of him – the thought of Mike loosing her happiness to those bastards…

She grinned again.

"Stop that, Dean. Don't get gloomy – it was fun. Everything had been exactly right – the way I always dreamed it to be. You, the laughter, the movie, cooking, sex, the shower – the sex – breakfast – did I mention the sex?" Her eyes were sparkling in the dark hallway, burning away every piece of sorrow on Dean's mind right now. He couldn't help it – he felt so _good_!

"See – this is what I want to remember: you and being happy. Just happy and carefree. Anything else… I don't really need."

Dean studied her features, imprinting everything of her in his mind. Her hair, her eyes, her nose, her smile with the slightly crooked front-teeth… Then he kissed her on the nose, turned around and started to walk away. He hadn't gone two steps before he twisted on his heels and kissed her for real – a long, hot, passionate kiss.

"Thanks for the great time" he whispered, moving backwards but keeping her hand a little longer until she was the one to brake the connection.

****

"So, why did you call?"

The brothers were in the Impala, on the way to the address Sam had obtained the night before. It was still half an hour to eleven. When Dean had returned to the motel, Sam had already been there, sitting as usual at his computer. They had joked a little, Dean had found a fresh shirt, went out for a burger and waited for the day to end.

Boring.

"Huh?" Sam had been driving absentmindedly "When?"

"In the morning – you called, asking for the motel-keys? I mean, that is just so… well, not what you would call about."

"Hmm…"

"No-no-no-no Sammy. Tell me what this was about – or shall I take a guess?"

"Right, guess along!" Sam didn't want to delveinto that, but he had a pretty good idea what the guess would be.

"You were worried." _Bingo._

"I was not." No, he didn't want to talk about it.

"Right, sure, you call early in the morning, somewhere with a hot babe? For _keys?_"

"So what! Maybe I was worried – what do you care?" Dean looked at Sam incredulously. _What?_

"What I care? What I care? Of course I care!"

"Huh, never seemed to care before!" The voice was low, Sam didn't really want to start a fight. But he wouldn't back down either – he was a Winchester, after all.

"What? I care…You know…"

"No, …yes, …I mean about ME caring about YOU! Not you caring about me – I know you do. More than anything I know that. But every time I say that you worry me, you try to whisk away my concern. You don't take it seriously, never! I do have feelings, you know? And I'm not stupid, _and_ I can read you better than you semm to be aware. So when I'm worried, I have_ EVERY_ reason to be! And you shouldn't try to laugh it away, because that is something that makes me mad and even more concerned!!"

They drove on in silence, until Dean spoke again, subdued and …resigned?.

"I hurt all over. OK? My ribs hurt, my chest hurts, my calf hurts a lot – satisfied?" His eyes were glued to the dash and Sam knew that it cost him to admit as much. He should feel gratefull that his brother was giving him that much, but that wasn't what he had been talking about.

"I didn't mean… I mean, I know you are in pain – I saw you gobblin' those pills, I see you walking and don't think I don't notice that you don't even try to drive. What I mean – argh, man, I don't know…"

He sighed unhappily and gazed at the road in front if them. Dean took a deep breath, ran his hand over his face and turned to the side-window. _Fuck!_

Silence.

After a short while, he looked at his brother again.

"It's not that I don't care about your worries. It's just… I can't get over the fact that it is not my job to keep anything away from you. I mean – I tried to, you know? I tried to… Fuck, I just … I hate this kind of crap! I hate to talk about myself. I do. I just do. And even when I see what this does to you, I still can't. Because … Fuck, just because…" His voice trailed off, leaving a taste of sadness in the car.

Sam was still not looking at Dean. His eyes up front, he spoke softly

"I'm not 20 anymore. I know you wish that I was. But I'm not the same I was before. And what makes me really, really mad is the fact that you still want to filter reality for me. That is not necessary. I'm all grown up now. Not like I wanted to, but still. I can take care of myself – have been doing it for some time, even before He… even before. And I just wish you could acknowledge this and give me a little trust in return. That is all I'm asking for. I deserve that much, don't you think? I can help you, take care of you if it's necessary. I _want_ to. And so – please! – " he turned to Dean, meeting his gaze

"LET ME!!!"


	11. Chapter 11

_Now folks, it's gonna get a little... unpleasant. I sereiously hope, I didn't cross the line of the rating, if I did, please tell me so I can change that._

_I also would like to add - in case you didn't figure it out yourself - I like dogs. I like them a lot, and I get royally, royally PISSED imagining what people do to them. So: In absolutely NO WAY do I support or even understand the habit of humans to let animals (don't matter which ones - but dogs is worst) suffer for the sake of entertainment. _

_Just so we're clear on that! _

_Now. Let's see what the night brings._

_

* * *

  
_

They arrived at the address a few minutes before eleven.

It was a barn. Nothing more – only the assembly of cars of every make and age in front suggested something other than a country-fair.

"Well, whatever it is, it doesn't look like a dog-beauty-contest."

Sam let his gaze wander over the location, taking in the people who were cuing in front of the barn and the fact that they were far away from any other house.

"Man, I have a very bad feeling about this…" He shuddered a little, not only from the chill air.

"Let's check it out."They went to the entry, showing the card to the man at the door. He just waved them through.

The barn was brightly lit, sawdust on the floor and a large caged ring in the centre. Around it, people from every social class gathered, talking or arguing, a crowd was gathered around guys with white hats taking bets and shouting out odds.

"Dog-fight!" Sam was whispering, though it was unnecessary – even if he had shouted no-one would have noticed.

"What, they let dogs fight against each other?" Dean was surprised and took a closer look at his surroundings. This looked like a professional boxing-arena, not a place were some stupid farmers set their animals against each other.

"It is an ever-growing industry. I read about it, but never really encountered anything like this. Man, look at those people," Sam pointed to a corner "they probably own seven cars – each!"

He was right, a lot of the crowd seemed to be rich. There was a fair share of middle- and lower-class, but somehow the 'elite' stood out. Already disgusted, Dean and Sam tried to mingle with the crowds, coaxing information from them.

All of the sudden, the murmur all around and the shouting of the bookies dimmed. Into the ring stepped a young man with a red shirt. A puckered scar ran across his left cheek. He raised his hand and the noise stopped altogether.

"Welcome friends. Today we have a very special treat for you, not only will we see the all-area-champion 'Darkside' and his challenger 'Komo' – no, we also have invented a new and exciting battle-class, which will have its premier tonight. So, I hope you all enjoy the show and I wish you a gruesome night – Let. Them. Fight!!"

Under heavy cheering, doors opened from opposite sites of the barn. Two men entered, each one with a large dog on a short chain. The dogs wore leather-muzzles, but even with this protection they emanated danger. They were huge – much bigger than ordinary pit-bulls, their backs broad and muscular. The legs were sturdy and both dogs were leaving deep scratches in the floor while trying to pull their handlers faster to the pit. One was dark, the other one nearly white with tan markings. Both had a huge collection of scars on their bodies.

When they came nearer to the ring, they got wind of each other – and the handlers had to pull them back with all their might. They started to hit them with a broad club to keep them sharp, angry and yet somehow manageable.

With the aid of a helper, the muzzles were removed and on a signal from the man in the red shirt, the handlers took off the chains.

***

Around Sam, the world turned completely quiet. The crowd was roaring but he couldn't hear a thing. His eyes were glued to the centre, where the two dogs met seemingly in slow-motion, colliding with a clash that he couldn't hear but felt nonetheless. Without any delay they went for the throats, tearing at each other, spilling blood from the first second. Drops of blood and saliva were spraying all around them, covering the nearby spectators, pulling Sam's gaze with them over the crowd.

They were screaming and shouting, waving hands and fists in the air, trying to make the dogs fight harder, faster, kill kill kill…

When the dark dog went down and the other one was still clenching its jaw around its opponent's neck, the dog-handlers – covered from head to toe in padded clothes – went in and tried to break them apart. They kicked and tore at the dogs, loosening 'Komo's' bite a little with a long iron – just enough for 'Darkside' to draw some air. After a second, they let them go again, and the fight continued.

It felt like eternity until one dog was down for good – the light one, not 'Darkside'. It was covered in its own blood and in that of his challenger, open wounds everywhere and one leg twisted in an unnatural angle. He was still breathing heavily but his opponent wasn't going to let him go. He held on. The people roared, the bookies collected the debts and paid the winners.

When after 30 seconds the chest of 'Komo' was still moving, the red-shirted man stepped in the arena and with both legs ... He broke ripcage and spine with a horrible crunch.

Sam twisted around, pushing the people in front of him away, covering his mouth with his hands. He just about made it out before he threw up everything he ate that day, and probably a lot of what he had the day before.

He was sick against the outside-walls until nothing but bile came out of him, but still his stomach was cramping and he was heaving and shaking and feeling rotten to the core.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Sam leaned against the Impala and called out over the lot to Dean. Whatever had come after the dog-fight must have been spectacular; the noise had reached all the way across the parking-lot to where Sam was trying to recover. He had had to walk further away, but because he didn't want to miss his brother coming out, Sam hadn't dared to move too far.

Now he was angry – no, furious. He still felt terrible, the memory of the sounds made him sick. The noise from the next event had been so loud, the cheering so high – it must have been something even worse than the dog-fight.

And this stupid_ fuck_ of a brother strolled out of there like nothing happened, like it had been a Siegfried-and-Roy-performance or some rodeo. Most of the crowd had already left, talking and joking, faces aglow from a shared ecstasy. Dean had probably betted in there, he was certainly counting his winnings right now…

"So, how much did you win?" Sam asked acidly when the older brother reached the car. Dean looked up but didn't say anything. Sam tossed him the keys, knowing full well that the calf was going to hurt like hell whenever he pushed the brake – and he didn't give a damn.

Dean felt something move in his stomach – he didn't feel like driving. He swallowed and took a deep breath:

"Could you drive?"

"No."

This single, cold and uncaring word felt like an unsuspected kick in the belly. But since Sam had already sat down in the passenger-seat, he climbed in and started his car. Without a word – an occasional hiss when Dean moved his leg as the only sound – they drove to the motel. _How could he watch this? After all that compassion-babble of rescuing everyone - how could he stay and watch those poor things tear each other apart? How __**could**__ he!! _But he didn't speak out, keeping his rage and rightful indignation to himself. After all, what could Dean say to make him feel better? The trip seemed endless and the carwas filled with acidic tension until they reached the motel.

They parked and Sam went in, not even looking over his shoulder. That way he didn't notice Dean staying in the car, gripping the wheel tightly and fighting hard for control.

The impressions from that night had been – indescribable. The roaring of the people, the smell of human sweat and blood, the sounds of the animals – _oh God, those sounds!_

When he had seen Sam run out every instinct told him to follow, to get out of there. But he had to stay – not because he wanted to but because _this_ was the missing link. That single event which connected the victims of those ghost-dogs. They all had been there – Dean was certain of it. And now he had to know for sure. He had drifted over to the spectators, mingling and bullshitting his way to someone who knew those dead guys.

He had found them. He found the proof he needed though no lead to follow up on, but when he turned to leave, the second dog-fight had ended – this time the looser was killed by the other dog. Before he made it out, the crowd had blocked the exit, not on purpose but because they all wanted to witness the next event.

Dean swallowed and gripped the wheel even tighter. He couldn't move out of fear to break down entirely if he let go. He wanted to forget this, wanted to go out – do something, anything – but couldn't. So he sat and remembered…

***

_The man in the red shirt opened the pit and stepped in the middle. He blew in the microphone and at once the crowd went quiet. Into the silence he spoke, softly and invitingly._

"_My dearest friends, we have witnessed two awesome fights today. We all have been entertained quite well – but now, I'm gonna give you ---- "_

_He stopped, leaving the sentence unfinished until you could have heard a needle drop._

"…_. I'm gonna give you: The Doomsday-Pit!" _

_Those last words had been whispered, and into the eerie silence five men entered the arena. Each of them was carrying a cute puppy. 'This will be terrible, get out!' his head had been screaming at him, but he couldn't move in the crowd, he was pinned to where he was._

_The announcer spoke again and explained what would come._

"_Dear folks, our very special treat tonight will be this: we will put five dogs in here. Five of our best fighters, five of the most bloodthirsty killers you have ever seen. And we will give them – something to bite!" He grinned like a lunatic and Dean had felt his stomach twist and turn. _

_The red-shirt-man had explained the rules: the crowd could bet on any of the five fighting dogs, the one which was still alive at the end of the night would be announced winner – and its owner would earn a heap of money._

_After the explanation the betting had started, the masses had drifted to the bookies, inevitably pulling and pushing Dean with them. He tried to free himself, but no one would move for him, and when he crouched to weasel his way through the legs he had been lucky to come back up alive._

_No escape, and before he knew it, the spectacle had begun._

One hand on his mouth, he tried to keep the bile inside him, fighting against the hot, angry tears in his eyes. He was sick – so sick. It felt like being torn apart, from the inside this time, not like the demons did. And it was nearly as horrible as the torture he had had to endure in Hell.

_Five angry, foaming dogs had been brought to the fighting-ring, still on tight chains. The little puppies were placed in the centre of the pit. They had started to waddle around, making cute noises and whining a little…_

_On a signal, the dog-handlers released their animals. The sounds they made when they started the attacks were sickening. It was no bark, no growl – more like a bloodcurdling scream. The little dogs were dead before they even realized the danger they were in… _

_Before the pit-dogs could go against each other, the assistants of Red-Shirt threw something else in the cage. More dogs, probably fetched from the streets, maybe even stolen. All varied in size – some big and lanky, some just small, furry and cuddly. These were still young, but old enough to know what would happen. _

_They had started to run, tried to fight, screaming in terror, trying in vain to get out of the cage – and the crowd cheered. _

_It was a massacre. _

_Dean had closed his eyes, but the images his mind created from the sounds were horrible enough. Bones broke and the screaming of the victims was … beyond words. _

_And it went on like this._

_When he had dared to open his eyes, or when he had to for keeping his balance in the pushing crowd, he saw things so horrible – he couldn't believe that this was actually earth. That he was actually alive. That this were HUMANS around him._

_In the end, the fight-dogs had killed cats, other dogs, coyotes, rats and even turkeys. Whatever came into the pit was mauled, ripped and killed. Whenever the supply of killing-material stopped, the dogs went against each other, so after a while they were covered not only in the blood of the dead animals, but also in their own. One dog was killed in one of those fights. But the remaining four had more than made up for the missing beast. _

_Unbelievably, it got worse. Why he opened his eyes he wasn't sure, but once open he couldn't close them again._

_Four men entered the pit. They wore heavy padding and could therefore only move slowly. They all had long iron-rods like the ones used to pry open the jaws of the opponents in the fights before. The dogs attacked, wired high on adrenalin and probably some chemicals which had been given to them before._

_The humans stood their ground, even though they shook from the impact of the animals. And now the clubbing started. All four beasts had attached themselves firmly to the men's padded clothes, so they were nearly defenceless against the beatings._

_What was done to these creatures… _

_After only one dog remained breathing – his condition could not be called 'alive' – the punters had started to collect or pay. The animals inside the barn had been shovelled into a big heap – no matter if they were still twitching. While the crowd thinned, already moving for the exit, someone had drenched the furry pile in gasoline and set fire to it. The unpleasant smell made the crowd move faster._

_The last fight-dog, the big winner of the night – had been killed with one single cut through the throat, slowly bleeding to death, the sawdust mixing with the blood in a big, dark puddle underneath its twitching legs. It still had the padded arm of the jacket in his jaws when the light in his eyes went out._

_When most people had left and Dean was sure he could walk without dropping down, he made his way out of the barn – only to take the shit from his brother._

_***  
_

He hadn't felt able to argue, let alone explain why it had taken so long. If Sam wanted to be an ass – right then he hadn't been in the condition to screw his head in the right direction again.

And he still wasn't.

He needed a drink.

* * *

_You feel sick? That was my intention...  
I felt sick writing it. And still feel when I read it. And you know what? It is all fiction, but believe me when I say:_

_There seems to be no deed humanity isn't prepared to do._


	12. Chapter 12

_Thank you sooo much for the review, DarkAero. It means a lot - even more so considering you are the only one who lets me know how I'm doing_.

_Sam-fans might be a little startled to find him so ... ... yeah. But there is a perfectly acceptable explanation for his behavior, as you will see.  
_

* * *

When he entered the room, Sam had started to kick the shit out of his duffel back. He wanted to kick something else – or someone else – but the duffel would be perfect right now. He was so angry and unspeakably, ineffably sad about those dogs. _This_ was the reason for the ghost-dogs. These poor creatures would haunt the people from the fight. They were beaten and bloody, tortured to an existence that defied any description, twisted into something no dog was made for – a killer of its own kind, not interested in anything but blood.

Fiery tears were running down his cheeks, making his vision blurry. He wanted to scream, to hit something, to lash out at something, anything – like those dogs. He felt for them, felt their pain and their terror, the burning hatred inside them so matching his own when he thought about evil and demons and what they had done to his family. What they had done to his brother…

The same brother who still hadn't followed, whom Sam had lashed out at, not caring what he might hit. The one piece of family that remained, that was so precious to him, so important. The big brother about whom he had been worried sick the other night, the one person he did **not** want to hurt. Who should never be hurt again. The same brother _he_ had hurt deeply right now – he knew he had. He had seen him wince when Sam refused to drive – and not because of the pain in his leg. How could he ever make up for that?

Swallowing hard, he went out, sure to find Dean in the bar close by.

He didn't.

He found him in the parking lot, curled up against his car, pale as a sheet. Dean had managed to leave the Impala, only to have his legs give up under him, sliding down against the metal to the ground where he now sat, not able to move, clutching his knees.

In the barn, he had kept his eyes closed and fought hard to keep the noises out, trying desperately not to let his memories being dragged to Hell.

It had worked for some time, but in the silence of the dark lot he had lost the fight – and the memories rushed in, overwhelming him, mixing with the sounds and smells of that earthly hell he had witnessed. Fear, terror, echoes of the agony from the rack had grabbed him, making him bite his knuckles as to not scream, frantically clinging to this minor pain as a tiny piece of reality in this nightmare.

Sam was shaken to the core.

Never, not ever had he seen something as terrifying as this. His whole life, Dean had been the rock to grab in a storm. Wherever he went, however hard the situation had been, his brother had somehow managed to keep Sam together. Even after Dad's death – even after _Hell _– he had kept his composure, only sometimes letting a glimpse of his true feelings show. And even if he hated this big macho-show, it had been a fix-point of his life. Somehow he had managed to make Sam forget what had happened, leaving the impression that everything, _everything_ could be endured – and joked about later.

What did he say earlier? That he wanted Dean to stop filter reality for him? So was this what lay beneath those rose-coloured glasses?

Slowly he crouched in front of his brother.

"Dean?" He spoke softly, like he would speak to a terrified child. When he got no reaction, he reached for his hand and gently but firmly pulled it away from his teeth. Shocked to find the skin gnawed down to the white of the knuckles, Sam held the hand tightly and tried to see into Deans eyes.

There was no response; he was too far away to hear him, his gaze turned inwardly to some hidden terror.

_Help, I need help. Dammit Dean, how can I help you?_

Somewhere in his scared brain, Sam realized the irony of the situation: he had asked for this, for a chance to show that he was capable to take care of his brother, for once being the rock to cling to and not the one clinging.

Now he had his chance – and he didn't know what to do.

When he failed to shake his brother out of his rigor, Sam sat down next to him on the cold ground. He didn't know what to say.

His shoulder was touching Dean's and he kept the bloody hand firmly in his own. No reaction to this unasked touching was a sure sign that his brother was far, far away.

Sam was scared. Really, really scared.

What could he do? How could he help? There was nothing to fight, nothing to kill. Gladly he would have taken on a bunch of zombies, demons or pagan gods. But this? This was _way_ out of his line of expertise.

He tried to quieten down the big, nagging question on his mind**:** What does it take to crumble his brother, to reduce him to this scared and numb little boy that was cowering next to him?

And how in God's or Hell's or _anybody's_ name was he going to make him alright again?

It was cold and Sam was only wearing a shirt, his jacket still in the motel-room. But even if it meant freezing to death – nothing would have been able to get him away from there. So they just sat, keeping company and a firm shoulder in case it was needed.

From time to time the younger Winchester shifted his gaze, trying to see if there had been a change in the lifeless stare of those moss-green eyes. But nothing seemed to move in there, the low, shaky breathing was the only sign that there _was_ life next to him – somewhere…

_Oh please God, please – help him! Help him! What do I have to do? I'll do anything, I will – please, let him out of this! Answer me – what does it cost??_

But nobody answered, and nothing changed.

****

After a while, Sam started talking, soothingly, quietly. Remember this, Dean? Remember that? It took him three sentences to realise that _remembering_ was probably the core-problem here. So he started to talk about the things that Dean couldn'tknow, to talk about Stanford.

He told him how he had met Jes – _Damn_, _I've nearly forgotten what she looked like – _Why he had chosen law instead of something else. How he first met 'civilians' for longer then a week – and how strange it had been to listen to them complaining about clutching mothers and overprotective fathers. He had to smile at the memory of his first visit to Jessica's parents. They had been quietly checking him out, her father asking innocent little questions about his own family – not believing any of the lies Sam told him.

"You would have liked him – he was a sharp customer." Mr. Moores dry humor has reminded him sharply of his brother, whom he had left behind and tried to forget – unsuccessfully – so it wouldn't hurt so much.

He talked about his professors, talked about his friends, the comfortingly ordinary dreams they had. He told about the nights Jessica had dragged him to a party – how he had hated it. He told about all the stupid excuses he had had to invent to evade this social mingling.

****

Slowly but unstoppable, black turned to blue. The dark and strangely comforting blue of a new day.

Sam shuddered. He tried not to but the cold had crept into his back and spread from there all over him. Soon the daylight would bring the first customers and they would probably call an ambulance. How that could help was out of Sam's imagination.

He took a deep breath and shifted his numb shoulders, coming to the conclusion that he would need to call Bobby – once again.

"Come on, please," he whispered, nudging Dean with his shoulder. But he got no response. So he shifted his weight to reach the phone in his pocket and started to dial, never letting go of his brother's ice-cold hand.

Before the connection was made however, he felt his fingers being gripped tighter.

"Don't."

It was only a whisper, so low that first Sam thought it had been an illusion. But he could feel the change in Dean's breathing against his shoulder – deeper, more aware.

And he blinked.

One slow blink first, but then more – and with each one the scary, empty stare was disappearing, the light returning to his eyes.

Sam let go of the mobile, ignoring the voice at the other end telling him that the person he was calling was unavailable.

Still, he didn't dare to move – like a clumsy kid in a china-shop, too scared to break the fragile things around it. At last, Dean took a deep breath, held it for a second and when he let go of the air he leaned his head back against the cold metal of his car and rubbed his hands over the face. When he turned around to Sam, he actually managed a smile. A very poor copy of one but Sam was so relieved to see it, he had to swallow hard as to not break out in tears.

His brother was shifting, trying to loosen his muscles and the stiff neck.

"It's cold, why are we sitting on the ground?" he asked wearily, voice like gravel.

"I don't know. It seemed the right thing to do. But if it's all the same to you, we could move to the room. My ass fell asleep about an hour ago…"

Dean had to chuckle, the grin that followed stayed on his face and unbelievably made it all the way to his eyes. Sam stood and reached down to help him up. His brother was still shaky but after moving around a bit, the worst of the knots in his muscles were gone. Still twisting his cold shoulders, he led the way to their room, Sam in tow.

Who was still uncertain if this was really over. When he entered though, Dean already sat on his bed, wearily rubbing the back of his neck.

"Um…" Sam was not sure what to say but felt it necessary to say _something_.

Dean looked up, taking in the look in those concerned light-brown eyes.

"So, you think I would have liked Mr. Moore?"

"You heard?"

"Yeah, I heard you… I just..." He looked down, inhaled deeply and then turned his full gaze to his brother, still a little shaken. His voice was raw and hoarse.

"Thank you, Sammy."

"You're welcome."

They went to bed. Dean fell asleep the second his head touched the pillow. But Sam wasdn't able to. He turned on his side so he could watch his brother in the next bed, scared that he might have a nightmare, that he somehow slipped back into this terrifying numbness. His eyes stayed on him, never leaving his shape and watching over every move he made.


	13. Chapter 13

_Here we go, folks. Thanks again for the reviews and to all of you who put me or my story on favorites, it gives me thrills to see that. Thankyou._

_There is some music in here, it is not mine (damn...) but from Marc Cohn. "Walking in Memphis", and don't you dare to think Dean would listen to Cher! Why I chose that song? Well, I have been driving to work, listening to the radio and when I heard this, I kept imagening Dean singing it. So. That's about the best reason for MY Dean singing it, I guess... He has the perfect voice for it.  
_

_Have fun, folks.  
_

* * *

He woke with a start. The sun was high in the sky, shining through the dusty window and tickled his nose. Still half asleep, he looked around, trying to find the reason why it felt so strange in the room.

It was not too stuffy, not too warm, not too cold, the bed was ok; it was cosy and peacefully quiet…

Quiet!

He snapped awake, sitting upright in bed. _Dean! _

Sam looked over to where he had last seen him, fearing to find his brother in a state similar to yesterday. But the bed was empty.

"Dean?" No answer. He stood and went to the bathroom, knocking carefully and trying the door. It was open – no one was there.

Feeling sick all of the sudden, he went out and looked around the motel-area. Nothing. It was warm outside, not a real Texas-heat but unexpectedly nice weather after the cold night before. Sam stood in front of the room, feeling very, _very_ ill. Where was Dean? Only a few cars were in the lot – one of them was the Impala. _Phone!_ Sam went inside, finding his BlackBerry on the bedside-table. He had switched it off sometime after Dean fell asleep in case someone called and woke him up…

After he switched it on he got the signal for 'missed calls' – Bobby.

_Sorry Bobby, not right now._

Sam dialled Dean's number but before he could push the 'call'-button, the door opened and his brother stepped in.

"Oh, you're awake?" His face was still a little weary, but the smile was real.

"Where were you, I was just going to call you!" The younger stepped to him, feeling the urge to grab the stubborn mule of a brother and shake him.

"Sorry, I wanted to be back before you woke up. I had to ... find something for my hand."

Sam studied him from head to toe. He looked ok. A little dark around the eyes, a little pale, but otherwise not too bad, considering. His hand was wrapped in a clean, white bandage. Dean shifted uncomfortably under Sam's scrutiny, but let it pass. So he forced himself to relax, telling himself that his brother was a grown up, was perfectly able to go out alone. Now, if he would just _behave_ like a grown up…

"Ok, I'll just take a shower. Could you please be here when I'm back?"

A funny comeback snapped into Dean's brain, but the look in Sam's face was serious and so full of concern that he just nodded instead.

While Sam was in the bathroom, his cell rang. Dean looked at the caller-ID – Bobby.

"Sam, Bobby's on the phone!" he called loud enough for his brother to hear.

"Take it!"

When Sam came out in his shorts, Dean was sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall. He had talked to Bobby for a while, taking the opportunity to ask him about ghost-dog-handlers. And trying to play down the fact that Sam had called in the wee hours and never picked up when Bobby called back only ten minutes later. Knowing Robert Singer, his bullshitting and half-assed reassurances were probably unsuccessful – but since he was clearly all right, the older man had let it go.

"Do we need to talk about last night, or could we maybe just work?" Dean didn't want to talk, but he knew his little brother. And he didn't want to worry him more than necessary – not to mention the fact that he was a bit worried himself…

"Well, that depends: will you tell me what happened to you, or not?"

"What if not?"

"_Then_ we need to talk about it" Sam winked, making light of the seriousness he felt. He wanted to know more, but he knew his brother wouldn't part with his feelings without a fight. So under the shower he had decided to throw him a bone – _And wouldn'T Dean laugh his about this analogy? – _to let Dean choose the depth and subject of this conversation.

"Uhm, to cut it out short: I lost it."

For someone who was so bent on always appearing cool and capable, this was quite a confession. Sam raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

"I've noticed. And?"

"And? What 'and'? I lost it and it won't happen again!" Dean shrugged. "At least I hope so. Now, back to the case: when I was talking with some guys who knew our victims –" Sam sighed and searched his jeans. _Ok, 'work mode'…_

"Let's just call them 'dead guys', I feel dirty calling them 'victims'" he interrupted.

"OK – our 'dead guys', they told me that they were all regulars. They came to every event. Sooooo – since we probably both agree that those were the kind of dogs that nearly ate me two nights ago, we can assume that these spirit-dogs have every fucking reason to be pissed!" He looked at Sam, whose face had turned dark at the memory of the fight he had witnessed yesterday.

"So I say: we pack our stuff and leave."

Sam's head shot up and he dropped the shirt he was just about to pull over his head.

"What?!"

Had Dean lost his mind? Had he been so shaken that he would bail on a hunt? No, a look at his face reassured him – he was completely serious and his eyes burned with a silent fury Sam had seldom seen so intense.

"They deserve what those dogs do to them! Every _second_ of it!"

What had happened in this barn after Sam left that could make Dean even _consider_ leaving human lives to spirits? He pushed the thought away and inhaled deeply.

"Yes, I agree. I don't know what else happened yesterday – and I guess I don't want to know, judging from how it freaked you out. But..." He looked up and his brown eyes were so sad and compassionate that Dean had to swallow. Too long had it been since he had seen this much caring for anyone on his little brother. If he had known he would get emo-Sam back because of dead dogs, he would have bought him a puppy months ago.

"…but what about the dogs? Do _they_ deserve this existence? Do they deserve to maul and rip and kill people? Even after their death? Don't they deserve to rest? After all they had to endure in life, I think they should finally find some peace."

Dean averted his eyes. Sam was right. Those dogs were not meant to be this evil – and they shouldn't stay like this.

"And they are dangerous to innocent people as well" his brother added.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the one with the whistle, he controls them. What if he looses this control? We've already seen what happens when they attack – if the handler hadn't called them back, you would be dog-food right now."

Dean had totally forgotten about the man. But his brother's reasoning was correct – if this guy – probably ghost would be the correct term – lost control, or maybe decided that other, innocent people were a nuisance, those dogs would wreak havoc in this town. He hated to say so, but Sam was right.

"So – what do we look for now? Dog bones or human bones?"

Sam pondered the question in his head. What would be the main spirit – the dogs or the man? He had no idea, but he agreed with Dean that it was the central question here: was the human leading the dog-spirits, or was he just trying to keep them at bay. Were they all intertwined, or were they independent from each other? Could the human appear without the dogs? The dogs certainly could…

"I don't know, but I hope when we find the guy, we find the dogs. It would be easier to find a human body."

"Yeah, we could pay another visit to Dr. Cox – she had a thing for you, Dude." Dean grinned wickedly.

"Bullshit…"

"Yes Sammy – face it: you have a magical attraction to older women."

"Oh, come on – she spit the donut-crumbles all over _you_. But we need to know more – we cannot go in and ask about 'someone who is dead' – I mean we don't know how he died, or where – or even what he looked like."

"You said you saw him."

"Yes, but I was distracted trying to rescue my stupid brother. I only caught a glimpse – it was just a shape. The only thing I can definitely say is: it was a human."

"Huh."

They sat around for a while, Sam behind his Laptop trying to hack the hospital-databases. After fifteen minutes, Dean couldn't stand it anymore.

"I'm going out. I can't think here." He turned to his brother "Am I allowed, Mom?"

"Jerk! Get your sorry ass out of here. I have to work."

Laughing, Dean crawled off the bed, put on his boots and left, taking the car-keys on the way out. Sam was relieved to be alone – he couldn't concentrate while Dean sat quietly on the bed. He was still worried about him and checked every two seconds if he was still 'with him'.

Ironically, the fact that Dean went out alone reassured him – working seemed to root him to earth again.

****

Dean drove a while, letting his instincts pull him. While Sam had been in the shower, he had swallowed two more pills and now his calf was good enough for driving. Mike had told him that canine-bites had the very unpleasant side effect to hurt more than cuts – because the teeth and claws were blunt. Dog-teeth leave scars even when they don't break the skin – the power behind those jaws damages and compresses the tissue beneath it. Sharp claws cut the flesh – blunt claws bruise or _rip_ it. And his calf seemed to have been more ripped than bitten. When he told about the head-shaking, she had only nodded, confirming her assumption.

Then she had started to kiss it better. Even though they were in bed, this caress had nothing sexual about it. He hadn't felt aroused but been slowly and unexplainably unwound. No girl before had been so caring and tender with his wounds. Actually, no one at all. Certainly not his Dad, whose presence made him want to salute even in traction. With Mike, he had fallen asleep while she very carefully massaged his calf with the flat of her hands.

Now, in the car the memory of her fleeting kisses on his stitches seemed to work the same magic. The numb pain in his leg subsided and the tension in his shoulders was reduced.

Dean remembered her smile, her grin – and the embarrassing situation when she found him watching a sex-movie. Even now he felt himself flush. From there his thoughts wandered to the shower and unconsciously he touched the back of his skull, which had been knocked a bit when he slipped on the floor.

He grinned – and felt good. Really ok again, inside and out.

His gloom disappeared altogether and he rolled down the windows, switched the radio on and started to sing along – as loud as he could, and he didn't care who called him nuts.

"…_And they asked me if I would Do a little number And I sang with all my might. And she said "Tell me are you a Christian child?" And I said __**"Ma'am I am tonight"**_

Damn, this station was great! Even though it never played AC/DC, they definitely hit the right spot. He took in the environment. His instinct had brought him to the barn from yesterday. And even though he shuddered at the thought to go in there again, he knew he had to check out the place some more. He just couldn't decide if he should do it alone or call Sam…

***

"Yes?"

Sam turned down the music on his computer. He enjoyed the rare occasions when Dean left him alone – he could FINALLY choose his own songs. Now he had to silence Shakira's sexy voice in case Dean was on the phone – he would never hear the end of it if he found out about the 'chick-music'. Though, his brother probably never saw the video. He would sure think different if he had…

"Oh hey Bobby, it's you – sorry I hung up on you tonight… No. No, he's out, working."

It took a little while to assure Bobby that they both were indeed ok and that he had simply overreacted. It hurt him to lie to his friend, but he didn't know how to tell him that his brother had been only one step away from a psychiatry-ward. When Sam disconnected, he had learned a bit more about dog-spirits.

Slowly, Dean walked through the dust, taking in the silence around him. It seemed like an ordinary barn; absolutely nothing indicated the slaughterhouse from the night before. He found some cigarette-butts in a corner, but that was about it. No clue as to where the punters had gone, nothing to show him where he had to go now.

He had decided against Sam, not only because he didn't want to drive all the way back to fetch him – he needed to check if he was able to function as usual or if he had lost it completely. But no, he seemed to be in hunting-mode again, his senses tuned high and everything put on alert. Just like it always was. It would have been quite a setback if he couldn't trust himself anymore…

_So, what now? _He tried to remember some details from the fight – details about the spectators, not the event itself. Nothing.

Then Dean stepped into the middle, where the arena had been and turned around slowly, taking in everything that was visible from there, imagining yelling people jeering for more blood and gore…

When he left the barn about half an hour later, he knew where they had to go next.


	14. Chapter 14

_Since I'm a nice person and I want to be friendly for the weekend, I'm posting a long chapter today. It will get a bit ... dark. And there will be violence, from humans and animals._

_ Just thought I'd warn you_.

* * *

"Dude, I know where to go from here…"

"Dude, I know where to go from here…"

As it had been in better times the brothers spoke in unison chuckled when they realized. Sam had been relieved to hear the roar of the car and the door was open even before Dean could do it. He was dying to tell him what he had figured out.

"Ok, you go first. I wanna know how close I came to your genius." Dean was happy to see Sam so excited about a hunt.

"Bobby called and he had never heard of something like this. He couldn't find out much, apart from the 'wild-hunt'-thing. But he agreed that the basic spirit is the man, because he directs the anger of the dogs. Without him, they would kill anybody who crosses their path – and until now that didn't happen. Sooooo – he gave me the idea that if we can't find the person who is dead already…"

"…we need to find the one who isn't yet!" Dean's grin spread over his face. He had come to the same conclusion – and he also had a very good idea, who the next victim could be.

"Red-shirt guy!" He was certain. Sam wasn't too sure.

"Dean, all the previous victims were just punters. They were nothing but regulars – why would the spirit attack the main character now? I mean, eventually he will get there, but…"

"Trust me, Sammy – I know that this will be the next one. I know!"

Involuntarily, Sam checked his brother's face. Dean noticed – annoyed.

"Come on – I haven't lost my instinct. It's as sharp as ever." He could see that Little Brother wasn't convinced.

"Look in my eyes and tell me I'm still out of it. If you think so, I'll let it go." The older brother grabbed Sam's arm when he turned away, muttering "This is stupid" under his breath.

"Come on, _look_!"

Reluctantly, Sam looked – and didn't find what he feared he would. There was a slightly different intensity behind the pupils, a special glow, only noticeable when you knew those eyes. But there was no doubt, no pain or fear or hidden lies.

This was Dean – his Dean. Pissed and ready to kick ass.

He averted his face to hide the tremendous relief that must have played on it.

"Ok, maybe you guessed right, but…"

"Aaaaah, but Sammy:" Dean grinned "I have the advantage of being ab-so-fucking-lutely sure: I checked!"

"What? How?"

"While you were outside, puking your guts out, I did some fact-finding. Those 'punters' were not just regulars. The two rich ones owned a breeding-facility together, the workers were dog-owners, so was the pimp. The second woman was the 'grilfriend' of Mr Red-Shirt – she was into 'training' – whatever that means."

"Nothing good, I assume." Sam was impressed, but would be damned if he showed it – Dean was cocky enough without his support. "Ok, so they were all more or less connected to this man – yeah, that is probably a solid lead to him."

"Right, now we need to find this guy. Did you dig out something in the web?"

"No, not really. I found a lot more than I wanted about dog-fights and what happens to the poor animals that are rescued. They can never be trusted with other dogs, but some can live with families. Though, what family would want a killer in their house…" Sam sighed.

He had found several stories on an animal-rescue-homepage about the conditions in which the dogs were born, bred and trained. He had to pace the room after reading some of them, they had gotten under his skin. Deep. He wanted those people punished – and he was secretly glad that the spirit-dogs got a little revenge. The only thing he couldn't quite get his mind around was the fact that Dean seemed to think so too.

"So, who do we squeeze about Scarface's whereabouts? The Jerry-guy in the bar, or Mrs Barlowe?"

"Mrs Barlowe? You think she knows who he is – and where?"

"Hmm, no, not really. But she knew enough to tell us about Jerry – and to be honest, I would like to ask her some things myself. Though I sure would prefer to visit the asshole from 'Theodore's'…" The way Dean clenched and unclenched his fist was a giveaway as to how he wanted to get the information. Sam couldn't agree more.

"He would be my first choice as well. Ok, let's see what he can tell us."

Jerry McGuire – yes, it was really his name – had been very forthcoming. Right after Sam had pushed him against a brick-wall.

When Jerry had been able to breathe again, he had started to babble, threatening the hunters with the police and his 'connections'. Though when Dean had pulled out his knife and nonchalantly cleaned his fingernails, he paid closer attention to Sam – who was in a 'no kidding'-mood himself. Between his assurances that he was not a bad guy, that he never knew what he actually sold and that he never-ever would watch a dog-fight, that this really hurt – oh, ok, it's supposed to – they got the fact that he didn't know much about his contact. Jerry only knew his first name – Steve – and that someone would send certain people along who would get an address and a date from him – for pay, of course. He told them that some guy called him for the specifics – and nothing else.

Great.

A dead end.

"So, I guess we have to visit Master-Sergeant Barlowe. Oh, and Sammy – don't get any funny ideas: if you want the Rottweiler, it has to travel on your lap. I will not have a dog on the backseat!" Sam grinned. If he ever wated this dog he was sure it would end up sitting on Dean's lap as soon as it gave him a look. His brother could never resist puppy-eyes.

To make an appointment at the shelter, he stopped at a phone-box to call ahead. This time they needed her full attention – and they didn't want to help feeding again.

***

Teresa Barlowe opened the door to her house; the 'Glorious Five' had been brought to the kennels this time. Although the dogs were hers and usually belonged in the house, she accepted peoples _justified_ dog-phobia. The not-so-tall agent seemed relieved to find the house fur-free.

"What do you know about the fights?"

"Why, didn't you arrest any of them?" For a second Sam wasn't sure what she meant – until he realized that she probably still believed them to be FBI.

"Uhm, to be honest – we are not actually from the FBI" "

"What? You lied to me? Why?"

"Well, it's easier and it gets answers faster." Dean wasn't in the mood for a long explanation.

"Sorry we lied, but we went to one of those fights – and we want them to stop. We know who kills those people and we know why – but we need to find the one who organizes these… 'events'." Sam interrupted his brother. He wanted Teresa on their side; she knew more than anybody else and they needed the information.

"I can't tell you. I gave you Jerry because I thought you were gonna arrest them – but since you are not police and clearly not in the position to do anything I want you to leave. Now!"

"Look, lady …" Dean started but was interrupted by her vicious finger waving at his face.

"Don't call me lady, young man. I'm old enough to be your Mum and you wouldn't call your Mum 'lady', would you?"

"You don't know me well enough to know what I will and what I won't do! _Ma'am!_"

"Stop it – Dean, please, let me handle it." Sam tried to pacify. They wouldn't get far if he let his brother blow up at this woman. Annoyed, Dean stood and strolled through the room.

There were millions of pictures on the walls – on most of them were dogs. _What else… _While Sam sweettalked Mrs Barlowe to listen to them, to believe them that they wanted to do something, that they needed this man – he was surprised to find pictures of people on one of the walls. All those people had dogs, but at least this were non-furry beings – quite a relieve for his eyes.

"Mrs Barlowe, I'm sorry we lied to you. But listen, please. Those fights have to stop. Whatever you know, we need to know too. We may not be police – but from what I assume, the police don't do much good around here anyway – does it?" Agitated, she clasped her hands around the coffeepot.

"No, I have talked to them, but nothing happened. At least…" Her eyes filled with tears, though she did her best to suppress them.

"What is it?

"After I told the police about what I know, I… I… Someone..." Now she couldn't stop her tears anymore, big, sad drops fell on the kitchen-table. It filled Sam with a deep sorrow, to see this strong, capable woman cry.

"They used to be the 'Glorious Seven'!" Sobbing silently, she told him that one week after her complaint, she had found two of her dogs dead. One had been decapitated, its head posted on the banister of her porch so she saw it first thing in the morning. The second had been clubbed to death, the baseball-bat still next to its mangled body. Marvel should have been dead too, but somehow the female had had enough willpower to survive the knife-attack. She had been bleeding severely, but against all odds, she was still alive.

"Since then, I keep them in my bedroom at night" she sniffed. "I don't like to let them out of my sight much."

Nothing indicated that Dean had been listening, so both were surprised when he spoke:

"Sam will go and check, if it makes you feel better." Her eyes filled with such pleading that Sam couldn't do anything but smile and nod, though he didn't like it. _Yes, Sir! I will certainly do thy bidding, Master…_

After Sam had left, the older Winchester sat down at the table again.

"Look, we had a bad start. Let's do it properly: Hello, my name is Dean Winchester – and I'm gonna help you get revenge!" Teresa was stunned – she had expected some sweet talk, sugar-coated assurances that she was doing the right thing... Never something like this. _He must be kidding… _But his eyes burned with hot intensity and so much sincerity – she didn't doubt his words.

Dean meant it. Finding loved ones killed in such a fashion – even if it were 'just dogs' – would make him _ache_ for payback. And he suspected her to feel exactly the same. Hadn't she told them earlier that she would kill anyone who hurt her dogs? She hadn't been kidding… And Dean wasn't too.

"Look, I know you have too much to loose to do it yourself, and probably not the right…equipment. And you are scared about what will happen to the rest of your furry friends if you tell the police. I understand. I cannot promise you that the people who did this to your dogs will be personally punished. But here is what we _can_ do: we find the one responsible for the fights. We find him – and he will be gone. Forever. No one will look for him. Nobody will dare to ask too many questions. And no one will even _think_ that you were involved. Deal?"

Teresa was speechless. When she remembered to shut her mouth, she took a sip of the lukewarm coffee to hide her embarrassment. _How could he know this? Are my feelings that obvious?_

She took the offered hand the same instance the front door opened and five dogs with madly wagging tails burst into the room, barking and jumping up and down against the two conspirators, making a lot of happy noises. Sam followed, grinning from one ear to the other. _You treat me like a child – I behave like a child._ His eyes were daring Dean to say something. But his brother shut up, only the slight change in body-language betrayed his discomfort when the dogs came too close.

"Teresa was just about ready to tell us what she knows" Dean said when the dogs had calmed down. "Did you threaten her with a gun?" but Sam smiled and took the edge off his statement. Even with a sixty-year-old his brother could work magic. _So: who is the one that has an irresistible attraction to older women?_

When everyone had a fresh coffee, Sam started the questions since Dean showed no sign of taking the initiative again.

"OK, let's start in the beginning: how did you learn about those fights?"

***

It took some time to sort through the information Teresa gave them, but after two hours and buckets of coffee, they had the name of a possible suspect.

Steve Durman.

He used to be a county-employed dog-catcher, but was fired when too many people complained about his rough handling of the animals he caught. Some of them were family-dogs and quite a few of those showed unusual behaviour after their short stay in the shelter. She didn't know where he lived, but this little fact would be easy to find.

When Mrs Barlowe accompanied them to the car, she tugged Dean at his leather-jacket to keep him a few steps behind Sam, who was again happily playing with Marvel.

"This… this thing we talked about, this deal…"

"Don't worry – I promise it won't cost you you're soul." Dean grinned. "It stays between us, nobody will know."

"Good. Oh – can I make a wish?" The green-eyed man –boy? – man! looked at her and nodded solemnly.

"I want him to _suffer!_"Her voice was cold and the short sentence was spoken with poison dripping from every syllable. A curt nod was all she got – but it was enough assurance for her. "I have one more question: the pictures in your kitchen – those people. Do they work with you?"

"Yes, I have a photo of everyone who used to work here."

"'Used to'? Past tense?"

"Yes, it's my remembrance-wall. Every dog or person who shared my life for some time gets on it. Why?"

"You said your last help left you – when was this?"

"Oh, maybe half a year ago? One day there – next day gone without a trace. Mind you – it happens a lot. Young people don't stay very long; they get on with their lives and find different hobbies. Why?"

"Oh, just curious…"

"Did you fix a date?"

"Huh?"

"Just then, while I was further in front?" Sam leered at his brother to annoy him, but Dean wasn't in the mood for this.

"Just shut up, Sam…"

_

* * *

  
_

When they reached the motel, Sam looked up the address of Durnam in the telephone-directory. They found it on the map – a farm quite some way out of town – and made a plan to scoop it that evening.

To kill the time, they went out to have dinner and later Dean checked his knuckles. They were a bit soggy and hurt when he curiously poked them. But it was more discomfort than real pain; he cleaned it and put on fresh bandages. Who knew what unpleasant stuff they had to touch tonight... While he was at it, he checked his calf too. The sutures seemed to heal ok, though his leg was now completely black-purple from the ankle all the way to his knee. _Great, so much for shorts…_

_*_

"Ok, there it is" Sam whispered. They had been watching Durnams property since late afternoon, flat in the grass because there was no cover to hide behind. The fenced farmland was in a small valley, completely surrounded by hills. From down there, you cold spot a visitor the minute he showed his head over the top of any hill. No element of surprise during the day.

They had parked the Impala a mile away to avoid it being spotted and walked as close as possible. The last few yards had been passed crawling; the big duffel with the equipment – accelerant, salt, shotguns and shovels – pushed and pulled along. Now they lay in the grass and sweated under the low sun. It had been a hot day.

"Hmm?" Dean turned on his belly. He had spent the last 20 minutes on his back, head on the duffel and one arm over his face to shield it from the sun. They had taken turns watching while the other one tried to get some rest. It would be a long night, and their Dad had taught them to use every second of sleep they could get whenever they could get it.

Now Sam had shaken his shoulder to wake him and pointed to something. Dean took the field glass and followed Sam's finger. He spotted the small willow-grove, a good 900 yards off. The house and the barn lay right in the middle between them and the trees.

While they watched, Durnam was unloading something from his old pick-up. He dropped it – it looked like an animal – and opened a hatch in the ground. With a kick, he pushed the thing into it, shovelled some dirt from a nearby pile on top and closed the lid again.

When he was back in the house, the hunters prepared for a long, boring wait. Luckily, Dean had packed M&Ms, water and something to bite. Sam had persisted and so they had bought sandwiches instead of crackers...

**

"Sammy, wake up!"

The sun had set and only a dim glow illuminated the hills. The farm lay in shadow, except for the immediate vicinity of the house which was brightly lit. Durnam didn't like surprise-visitors. Taking the bags with them, they used the darkness to creep closer and cut the wire-mesh. To reach the grove, they could have gone along the fence, but already the dim glow of the sun had disappeared and the ground was too uneven to walk in darkness. To make matters more complicated, thorny bushes grew everywhere, and Sam had already made contact with one of them. They were spiky as hell and he would need a new shirt. The hunters would have to use the flashlights – and even an idiot could spot that from the house. Steve Durnam was a cruel son-of-a-bitch, but certainly not fastest way was across the yard, passing between the barn and the back-door of the house. And that was the route they took…

When they were between barn and house, they saw Durnam moving in the kitchen, turning in their direction just as they crept past his truck. Quickly, they went down, Sam crouching next to the hind-wheels and Dean taking cover behind the open loading-platform.

Red-shirt-guy was staring at his truck, sure he had seen movement. But there was nothing, and after the seconds had stretched to eternity, he shrugged and turned back around to get his microwave-dinner. Exhaling silently, the hunters stood. Sam peered into the kitchen, but Durnam had taken his delicious re-heated mud into the living-room to eat in front of the TV.

"Come on." He whispered. After two steps he noticed his brother was no longer behind him. Sam turned around.

Dean stood behind the truck, staring at something on the platform. Slowly, his head turned from the truck to the house and back again. In the gloom of the porch-light, Sam thought he looked… creepy.

"Dean?" No reaction.

"Dean!" Now his brother turned to Sam, but instead of following, he dropped the duffel. With a loud clatter from the shovels, the heavy bag fell into the dirt.

"What... Dean, come on!" Sam's whisper was more an angry hiss. _What the fuck is it now?_ Annoyed, he grabbed his arm and tried to pull him along. But the elder shook him off and just stood. Waiting.

He didn't have to wait long. Durnam had heard the commotion and stepped out the back-door, shotgun raised.

"Who is there? What do you want?"

"Mr. Durnam, UPS. I have something for you!" Dean's voice was casual and controlled, without hesitation he approached the man with the gun, like it was the most ordinary thing to deliver mail in complete darkness. It was crazy, suicidal and … crazy. Sam took two steps into the shadows, preparing to use the rocksalt-shotgun if the bluff didn't work. A fleeting thought crossed his mind: _Maybe he doesn't want it to work? Does he want to … get shot?_

But the bluff _did_ work. Durnam was so perplexed that Dean was at him before he could do anything, not even move his finger and pull the trigger. Scarily fast the young man had disarmed him and drove his knee into his crotch. With a painful groan, the man in the red shirt toppled to the ground. The last thing he saw before the lights went out was a dirty boot that was closing in on his belly…

"Where is she!"

Durnam was on the ground, the 'UPS-man' was on his chest, the shirt in his hand to keep him upright. A little upright… He had no idea what the guy was talking about, or who the crazy fucker was. But he remembered pain and dust and dirt – he remembered being kicked around the yard like a ball in a soccer-game. Through the fog in his head, he heard another voice, of another man.

"Dean, come on! What is wrong with you?"

"He killed her, Sam! And he is going to tell where. And most of all: why!!" With this, he turned and punched Steve in the face. Again. And again. The ex-dog-catcher groaned in pain.

"Who? Who did he kill? What are you talking about?" The stranger stopped punching for a minute and let Steve's head drop on the ground. With the impact of skull on dirt, Durnam saw stars exploding in his brain.

"Dean!" Sam had pulled his arm back, preventing his brother to hit the man on the ground again.

"He killed her, Sam. Look in the truck!" With this, Dean stood and shoved his brother to the dirty red pickup.

"See? Recognize it?" He grabbed the piece of cloth that had been lying in one corner of the loading-platform and waved it in front of him. Sam saw it but didn't know what to make of it. It looked like…

"It could be anybodies…" He took the red-and-black jacket that his brother was holding. It was stiff and crusted with dirt. And maybe blood, but in the dim light it was hard to tell. Just an ordinary outdoor-jacket, one of a thousand. Yet Sam had to admit it looked familiar…

"You mean Mike? Why would he kill her?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out.." With these words, Dean turned back to Durnam.

The man had tried to crawl away, but his body was aflame. The kicks to the guts had been well aimed and forceful, probably rupturing something. Now the madman was on him again, grabbed his shoulder and pushed him on his back again. Slowly, almost casually he got on his knees, placing them left and right of Steve's waistline. Gently he took his chin and turned his head.

"Look at me, Stevie." His voice was deep and soft, like a purr. "Look me in the eyes…" Durnam twisted and writhed under the lunatic, but he was trapped. He tried to catch the eye of the other one, who seemed to be less violent. But the lanky guy with the sloppy hair just stood and stared. The psychopath slapped his cheek.

"Heyheyhey, look at _me!"_ he purred again. So Steve looked…

*

It felt like being drawn into these eyes, slowly and merciless his mind was pulled into two green pools, like an animal into a tar-pit. Deep, deep inside, behind the pupils, there was a small, red light, dim and barely visible. Steve tried but he couldn't break away from this gaze and suddenly, while he looked, the light from the deep lit up…

Sam stood a few feet apart, observing the strange scene displayed in front of him. Dean kneeled over Durnam, his face in his hands. Had he not witnessed the hunter beat the man's face to a pulp, he could have mistaken the sight for a lovers caress. When his brother approached his face to Durnam's, he half expected a kiss, but Dean stopped a few inches away from Steve.

From where he stood, nothing much happened. They just looked each other in the eyes. But whatever 'nothing much' was, it had a tremendous effect on the man in the red shirt. A sharp stench hit Sam's nostrils.

It took maybe two seconds of watching the inferno behind the green eyes for Steve to be reduced to a trembling mess. He gasped sharply and lost control of his bladder and more, but was way too horrified to be embarrassed. Tears were running over his face and he started to sob painfully, crying like a scared little kid.

"What do you want…" he whispered, still not sure what it was he had to do, but sure nonetheless that he would agree to absolutely _everything_ this man wanted from him.

"The girl. When did you kill her?" The voice was like honey, and had it not been for the eyes it would have sounded friendly, consoling. He licked his lips, still not able to break the lock the stranger had on his gaze. The terrifying fire was dimmed down, but it was still there, prepared to light up and burn its way through his soul again.

Steve couldn't speak, but he nodded - a small movement was enough for Dean to bite his lips - smothering the scream in his head.

"When?" the hunter managed through clenched teeth.

"I, I… I don't exactly… about six months ago…" Durnam was allowed a tiny pause of the burning fury in front of him when Dean had to shut his eyes for a second.

"Why?"

"Why?" The eyes were on him again, nailing him to the ground.

"Yes! Why?" the man hissed. "What kind of threat did she pose?"

"Curious…" Steve's voice was hard to make out.

"Speak up!" No purr, a growl.

"She was... curious. I heard her asking questions in town, about my…my…"

"Your horror-show. _That's _why you killed her? Because she asked _questions?"_

"No…" Durnam tried to shake his head, but couldn't, the grip on his chin was still too strong. "…yes. But not just... not because of that. I found her spying on my property. At the grove…"

"She found your mass grave, didn't she? So you killed her? Just like that? How?"

Durnam writhed, he was certain that answering this question was the last thing he would do. But the man held him tight, not giving him a chance for escape.

"How?" His voice was a whisper, directly into his ear.

"I shot her. In the head. Between the eyes…" He couldn't lie to this voice, to these eyes.

Sam had watched all this, not understanding much apart from the fact that the man had killed the girl – now he was certain where he had seen the jacket before – and that he shot her in the head. _Mike, he was talking about Mike. Had she been dead already when they met her? She is a ghost?  
_

Before he could think about this any longer, a creepy feeling spread over his spine and slowly he turned to see the three giant spirit-dogs approaching. They trotted across the yard like shadows, never making any sound. Not even a growl was heard.

"Dean." He whispered, not wanting the dogs to take notice. One of them looked up nonetheless – the small pack-leader. But it was only a casual glance, at once the glowing ember eyes were back on his prey.

"Dean!" This time his brother looked up and saw the spirits. A cruel smile spread over his face when he turned to Steve again. Slowly, like he had all the time in the world, he bent over the man and whispered in his ear, causing Durnam to whimper in terror.

"_Now burn for me…"_

With one elegant move, he was up on his feet, slapping the dust from his jeans. He turned and left, leaving his little brother to pick up the duffel and follow.

"Dean…"

"Don't talk to me!" Sam paused and raised his eyebrows, puzzled by the suppressed warning underneath the hiss. After they had walked a short distance, not yet out of the light, they heard Steve Durnam say something. Sam stopped and turned around.

*

"_Now burn for me…"_

The words had crept into his skull, leaving him trembling in fear. If someone asked him why, he wouldn't be able to tell. It was… It was a promise, a certainty. He _knew_ he would burn – this man had told him, and he had known…

When he saw the black shapes closing in, he gasped, crawled away, knowing how this would end, nonetheless pleading to the Lord to save him, to spare him this fate…

Sam saw Steve crawl to his feet, limping away from the dogs. In the glow of the porch-lamp, he looked pale as a sheet, except for the bloody bruises Dean's fists had painted on his face. He watched the man take two steps backwards before he fell to his knees, toppled over from the pain in his abdomen. Steve got up and fell again. He whimpered audibly, his face turned to Sam. "Please, help me…"

Slowly, the dogs crept closer, not yet prepared to stop the cruel game they were playing. Sam took a step towards them, his instinctive reaction was to go and help. But he didn't. His gaze was locked to the show in front of him, and he flinched when he suddenly felt the presence of his brother next to him who had come back and stood beside him.

Steve got up once more, this time nearly making it to his house. But the spirits had waited long enough. Like someone had released a coil spring they attacked, causing Durnam to gather up his last reserves and dash for the kitchen-door.

He was without a chance. Like one, the three beasts were upon him, tearing him down, his terrified scream piercing the night. Sam stood, frozen to the ground. Somewhere inside, a voice was telling him to help the man but it was not loud enough to drown the second voice, reminding him of the horror this man had inflicted on uncounted animals. He turned his head, but the figure next to him didn't move either.

Together they watched. They watched the dogs take Steve Durnam apart – piece by piece, bit by bit. The screams were echoing over the hills, surely somewhere someone would hear him… But there were only two persons close enough to do anything – and both didn't lift a finger. From the corner of his eyes, Sam peered at his brother – what was going round his head? Would he break again watching this? Was he standing still because terror froze him?

No.

Dean's eyes were never leaving the horror in front of them. He didn't look away – took it all in. Every detail, every scream. No sign of any emotion whatsoever was playing on his handsome features. But when the lead-dog ripped a piece of flesh from Steve's calves, so big that the bone flashed pale in the moonlight, a small evil smile crept over his mouth. His eyes were cold and for an instance, Sam believed he saw something else in them, some movement, like a flicker.

A deep, deep chill crept into the young hunter.

Even when Dean had told him that he had enjoyed the torturing of others, he hadn't really believed. The possibility had been too far out of his imagination. For him, his brother's compassion towards others had been overwhelming, more an obstruction in their path than anything. He should feel satisfaction about the change, the certainty that Big Brother would be able to do a lot more than just pity everyone. But he didn't. Quite the opposite.

He was freaked out.

This was not the hot fury Dean sometimes carried inside when battling against evil, nor the desperation and pain he felt after the loss of their father. This was cold. A cold and cruel callousness. Now Sam could easily picture the man next to him in front of a torture-rack, handling unpleasant tools with skill and absolute indifference towards the souls on it.

This was not his brother. This was a stranger.

Unconsciously, he took a half-step away from him.

"Ok, enough doggie-play for today." He clapped his hands and with a sudden flash of the cocky Han-Solo-smile, the scary stranger was Dean Winchester again. With a nod of the head he encouraged the younger one to follow. "Come on, Sammy – let's light a fire." Without giving further attention to the noises of breaking bones, muffled moans and gnarling dogs, he turned away, humming a tune Sam couldn't make out.

***

"'Unforgiven'!"

"What?" Sam had been going crazy because he couldn't put the right words to the tuneless whistle from between Dean's teeth. "You're whistling Metallica again."

"I am? Didn't notice. Come on, we need to empty the pit." Luckily, Durnams 'garbage-dump' was so far away from the yard that they couldn't hear the killing-noises anymore.

Sam was chosen to open the hatch and Dean took a look. It was dark and he used his flashlight to see.

"Great, there must be at least a dozen." He sighed unhappily and lowered himself in the old well. It was quite shallow, standing up he could look over the rim. He stepped on the first carcass – the one they had watched being disposed – and when he grabbed the leg that was showing underneath the earth, it came free at once. Luckily in one piece.

"I'll throw them out, give me the shovel and point the light." It didn't take long to reach the next carcass, which had only just started to rot. It smelled disgusting.

Even Sam, who was further up, had to swallow and he rose from his crouch to get some distance and fresher air. Dean grabbed the stinking thing and threw it out.

They had to dig up every dog – it was too damp down there, too much earth in between the bones to just light up the pit. It was a very, _very_ unpleasant task. After two more dog-bodies, Dean had to climb out and let Sammy work – he was getting sick in there.

Nearly an hour later, taking turns, they had an impressive pile of dead dogs, skin, teeth and bones. The brothers were feeling edgy, miserable and sick when Dean heaved the last set of bones on the pile.

"Hm."

"What?" Dean stood in the pit, covered in mud, dirt and other unpleasant stuff.

"These are all canine."

"So?"

"Dean, we came here to find the body of the dogs _and_ of a human. There is no human bone in this pile…"

"Oh." Dean looked around him, but there was no other body part anywhere. That did indeed pose a problem…

"Maybe it will be enough to burn the dogs…"

"_Maybe? _What if not? You know, when you were doing whatever to Durnam, you could have taken the opportunity to find out where the bones are. Might have been more important than asking about 'why'… By the way, what did you do to him that caused him to shit his pants?" His brother scowled up at him. In the light of the torches, you couldn't see his eyes, but…

"Shut up and salt the dogs!"

He swung himself out of the well and went to the duffel-bag a few feet away. When he heard a sudden intake of breath, he turned around.

"Dean…"

"Oh shit – Sam…" The spirits seemed to have finished with Steve. All three were creeping closer to Sam, who seemed to be the bigger threat to their stay on earth. Even as he said it, Dean knew that there was no way his brother could salt the bones – the unopened box was behind the beasts – or reach the shotgun before those spirits attacked. Not to mention the slight problem the _he_ had the lighter-fluid… His eyes darted to his shotgun – on the other side of the pit. They didn't even have a pistol or a knife – all this was bothersome or bound to be lost when digging. _Fuck – now what?_

Sam was standing stock-still. His eyes searched for a weapon but there was only the shovel he had used a few minutes ago. It wouldn't distract the ghosts. Not even slightly.

He was just to the right from the mass-grave, behind him were the carcasses. In front and slightly to his left, the dogs blocked his path – they were between the brothers.

A sharp sound came from somewhere. The dog-whistle. Sam was relieved, watched the dogs. Their ears twitched, one whined and turned its head. But this time, the spirit-dogs weren't hunting – they were in defence-mode. This was about survival; they didn't know that they were dead already. And the tall, slender man who smelled of death, earth and sweat was threatening them. No whistle would stop them today…

"Sam!"

Without waiting if Sam understood, Dean ran directly at the dogs, swerving in the last second to trow the bottle to his brother. Who caught it, of course. Instinctively, the dogs started to chase the running prey.

_Salt, salt, salt._ Sam ran, grabbed the salt-box, tore it open and spilled half of it on the way to the pile.

Dean ran. Fast – not bothering to check if they followed. His calf was killing him.

_Dammit, why is this opening so small? _The fluid seemed to only dribble from the bottle.

The earth was muddy, it was difficult to run. Didn't seem to affect the spirits much.

_Fuck Fuck Fuck – why does he have to play Mr. Superhero again – and where the FUCK are the matches?_

He slipped, stumbled, caught his balance – only to fall over something hidden in the grass.

_Come on, come ON – burn!_

He rolled over his shoulder but couldn't get up – his legs were entangled in a coil of wire. On his back, using hands and feet he crawled away.

Sam set the corpse-pile ablaze; the heat-wave was strong enough to burn away the hairs on his forearms. He turned to see his brother on the ground, the dogs sneaking closer now they knew he was trapped.

_Great, another memory of Dean being ripped apart – any more and I'll get used to it…_

The fire wasn't affecting the dogs yet – maybe their bones were deeper in the pile. Sam grabbed his shotgun and ran, bellowing something unrecognizable to get their attention. One turned for him – and Sam shot it with rock salt. Like all spirits, it vanished. Unlike most spirits, it reappeared nearly at once, solidifying quickly on the same spot it had disappeared from. The second shot didn't do much more damage – the dog kept on coming, was only slightly constrained. All the while the other two prepared for the final jump for their prey on the ground.

_Shit…_

_Shit..._

* * *

_I wrote this before Kripke messed with my fantasy, so Dean is a bit different from the Dean of the show. Still, not different enough to be AU. I took the liberty to grab a little idea from 'Dr Who'. Cookies for everyone who recognizes it...  
_


	15. Chapter 15

_No cookies. Sorry._

_But for my faithfull readers - whom I seem to have chased away - thanks for joining me. I hope I will see you again, somewhere around. This is the end, and I hope I didn't shatter your expactations. The fic IS called Punch Line - because there is one. Yeah, 'course it was Dean who get's punched, being my fic and all..._

_So, I hope you had fun - and delightful creepy feelings. Thanks for the reviews - I could sure take some more, though *nudge* *wink*_

_The song is from The Offspring again: "Rise and Fall" - which is cool and makes good listening in a car._

_

* * *

  
_

They never jumped.

A silent growl was broke the creepy silence of the ghosts. It was somehow audible even over Sam's shotgun. A small, whitish something stepped between Dean and the ghosts, its fur raised, the ears peaked forward. The hairs on his back seemed to spark and even though this dog was small, its gnarl and appearance was emanating danger.

One after another, the big dogs changed. The tails began to wag submissively, their faces relaxed and they started to avert their gazes. The eerie glow in the eyes went out, leaving an unlit greyness. Without doing anything but stare, the small white-brown terrier directed them away from Dean. Step by step, the spirit-dogs walked backwards.

Sam was stunned. 'His' dog behaved exactly the same when it saw the small thing. Now it turned away from him and joined its buddies on the retreat.

"Gaspode?" When he heard his name, the small dog barked and ran to Sam, jumping excitedly up and down his legs.

"What the f…?" But he couldn't resist petting the small, happy bundle – feeling its warmth, its fur, looking into gleaming brown doggie-eyes. It felt like a dog, looked like a dog – it even smelled like one. But what he had just seen was no common dog. He had seen his eyes burn with a strange blue light. No way was this just a dog…

***

"I'm getting strange 'Lassie-vibes' here" They had been following the exited terrier to another grove, a little to the left of the bonfire. The bones had burned completely to ashes, but the ghost-dogs were still there, following at a distance yet never coming close or attempting to attack. They seemed to accept Gaspode's leadership without question.

"Hmm." Dean was distracted, looking ahead but not taking in much. Something was moving in his stomach…

"Guess we are supposed to dig?" Sam was already preparing the shovel when he saw the terrier scratching at a certain spot. Reluctantly, Dean joined him. It didn't take long to reach the blue plastic. After Sam pulled it out of the shallow pit, it was quite obvious that it contained a human corpse. Gaspode sat down next to a small carcass in the ground and watched.

"Wait!" Dean held Sam's arm when he started to uncover the find. "Please wait…"

Biting his lip, he stared at the blue foil and at the small bundle of bones that lay next to the white dog. _This is so wrong…_

"I don't… Could we just burn it?" He shook the salt-box in his hand. Sam had risen to his full height again.

"You're sure it's Mike." Not a question.

When he spoke the name, Dean had to swallow. His throat was completely dry and his tongue felt like sandpaper, so he just nodded. His brother wrinkled his eyebrows in thought.

"You mean we spoke to a ghost? Don't you think we would have noticed? Why are you so sure it's her?" Sam wasn't convinced yet, especially because Mike hadn't behaved or felt like a ghost. She had been solid and warm. And happy. Ghosts are not supposed to be happy…

"Remember the pictures in Barlowe's kitchen? The ones with people? She was on her 'remembrance wall'."

"That doesn't mean she's dead. She could have just bunked. Or found a nicer hobby. Maybe she eloped with some stranger." Involuntarily, a small smile stole its way over Dean's lips. _She 'eloped' alright…_

"No. She wouldn't. She was far too passionate about dogs to just leave. Any other job – but not this one."

"When did you figure that out? You nearly bit her head off when we met her."

"Later, not in the car."

"When?" Sam was curious – and suspicious.

"I met her. In front of the bar. Three nights ago, when you were with the nurse. We talked." His brother tried to be matter-of-fact, but the emphasis ws on 'tried'…

"Huh." Sam peered at Dean's face, which as usual didn't show much. Actually, it showed even less than usual. As if…

"Dean? Where were you? I mean, when I called and you said that someone was cooking – you were with the blonde from the bar, weren't you?" He didn't have to say anything. Sam spotted the small, involuntary blink when he asked this. His brother took a breath.

"Come on, let's burn her. Your flee-bag is waiting to walk over the rainbow-bridge." His voice was a little rough, but Dean didn't want to let on how he felt. Empty. Carved out. Hollow…

Sam opened the plastic cover while and Dean looked away. He didn't want to remember the happy person he knew as a rotten bundle of bones. The younger took the salt from his hands, salted her remains and covered it in accelerant. The bones of the small dog were put on top of her. While doing this, he noticed the leathery things in the plastic.

"This explains, why they – " he pointed to the three ugly fight-dogs which sat close by on their hind legs. "are still here. Their collars were in her pocket."

Dean didn't look. He was searching something in the duffel – or pretending to search something. He just didn't want to stand around and see this rotting something. He would look at the fire though…Fire was good, pure. Made him feel alive – twisted as he was. Fire was death, always taking everything. And Hell? Yeah, there was fire all right… But even hellfire couldn't take his passion for the flicker of flames, the heat and the crackle. It just… it just made him whole. Yeah, he was a freak, always has been.

When the collars burned, the three fight-dogs started to vanish. Not with screams or panic, like many ghosts had done, but slowly, gently. They turned transparent, and while they did, their horrible shape started to change. One by one, the scars disappeared, the fur became clean and took on a healthy shine and the broken and malformed bones and joints aligned in the right places. Before they were gone completely, they turned their backs to the hunters and trotted away, disappearing into the night.

Gaspode stayed for a few more minutes. Even though _his_ bones had turned to ash sooner, he kept his shape. For a minute Sam believed him to be really just a dog – and somewhere from the back of his mind a picture arose: him and Dean in the Impala, the warm, happy bundle asleep on his lap. But before he could get used to the image, Gaspode turned around too, walked slowly for three steps until his terrier-blood took over. Chasing imaginary cats, he ran after his ghost-buddies, tail wagging and barking happily.

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"Could we leave? That was … creepy." Deans hand ran over his weary face, he grabbed the duffel and collected the equipment. They started back to the car. After ten steps though, Dean was sure he heard a small bark. He peered at his brother, but Sam seemed not to notice. He heard it again and looked back, just a glimpse over his shoulder.

In the moonlight, he thought he saw a figure in a red and black jacket, walking away from the grove. A small, white ball jumped up and down next to it, running away when the figure threw a stick into the night. He heard laughter, like a whisper in the wind, but when he stopped and turned around completely, there was nothing there. Just trees and grass and the smoke from the fire.

He shook his head – _Must have been the smoke –_ and followed his brother. He fought the urge to turn once more when he heard the faint sound of a dog-whistle…

They were quiet on their way. Before they left the farm, they had gone to collect the remaining pieces of Durnam. Without talking, they had put them on Steve's truck and driven to the grove. Dean had salted the disgusting pile of flesh, blood and bones and set it on fire. No one would look for him, no one would know…

From time to time now, Sam sneaked a peek at him, but once again his brother's face didn't betray any thought or emotion. He seemed completely indifferent to everything.

Sam knew that he wasn't. Even with years of refining his 'figuring-out-big-brother'-skills, he couldn't read him that night, but he just _knew_. He tried to bring up a conversation, but each time he took a deep breath, he just didn't know what to say. He had loved a girl once that he had to kill but he had no idea if this was comparable. Probably not, he was sure killing Madison was worse.

But learning that Mike – who must have meant more to Dean than just a stranger from a diner – had been a spirit all the time… How this was possible, how a ghost could be this real – how they couldn't _notice_ what they had been talking to and apparently doing even more with … Sam would ask Bobby, who had much more experience with the spirit world. Maybe he had heard of such a thing…

And then there was this creepy feeling when he remembered Dean with Durnam, and the way his brother had looked while they watched him being killed – this deep, cruel satisfaction… He was missing some pieces, but wasn't sure he wanted to find them.

The motel had been paid for one more night; they hadn't slept nearly enough to drive anywhere. Completely exhausted, they did not even bother to take a shower. They washed the worst of the mud and dirt from the faces and dropped in the sheets. Yet however hard they tried – both couldn't shut down their brains. After several twists and turns, Dean sat up again.

"Sam?" He whispered.

"Yes?"

"Did we do the right thing?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean – was it right to burn the bones?" Now Sam sat up too.

"I think so, yes. Why?"

"Because – well, maybe the ghost-dogs should have had their fun a bit longer…"

"You think they had fun?"

"Hmm. Don't know." Dean was glad that the room was dark. For a few minutes, he had let the… that _other_ part take over today, and he was not sure he had it completely under wraps again. He scratched his forehead and ran the hand through his short hair.

"You know, sometimes…"

"Sometimes what?"

_Sometimes I'm not sure 'humanity' deserves to be saved… _"Nothing. Let's sleep."

_Where would you draw the line? Who does deserve salvation and who not – and who should decide?? _He lay awake some more, realizing that his brother was waiting for him to finish his thought. Which wouldn't happen, not today.

"Dean?"

"Hmmm?"

"How does it feel?"

"Huh?"

"Kissing a ghost?" Despite the darkness, Sam felt his brother's smile.

"Shut up, bitch!"

***

After a long and undisturbed sleep, Sam woke at noon.

He watched Dean for a while, curious to see if he would be able to guess his dreams. He had done this as a kid when he couldn't sleep, but stopped a long time ago. Somehow he had never done it again since Dean told him where their Dad went all the time. He probably had had other things to worry about…

_Let's see if I can still do it… _But too much had changed and Dean woke less than a minute after Sam started his experiment – too sharply honed were his hunter-senses to ignore someone observing him. His head snapped up and he looked around for trouble.

"What is it?"

"Nothing…"

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop that! I hated it then, I hate it now!"

Sam grinned, stood and padded to the bathroom while his brother dropped back in the pillow.

He had slept fine. Surprisingly fine. He concentrated on the remains of his dream, trying to grab the images he still had in mind.

Mike.

Smiling, laughing about something on the telly. Grinning at his onion-induced tears. This strange smile whenever she figured something unpleasant was on his mind. Kicking him when he tickled her. Laughing about him on the shower-floor. _Damn, I will never be able to have giggle-free sex in the bathroom…_ Her earnest face while they had the very important discussion about who was funnier – Pierce or Hunnicutt.

Her crooked front teeth, which had come to expert use that night. The way she licked her lips when she looked at him. And her eyes. Those grey eyes with the dark lining. Sparkling in the darkness of the bedroom, widening with pleasure and desire when he touched her, her small gasps when…

"SAM! Hurry up in there!"

Since Little Brother seemed to ignore him – quite certainly on purpose – and his need for a cold shower was already fading, he used the opportunity. Leaning over, he grabbed the laptop from Sam's bedstand and switched it on. From the duffel on the floor he took a small item and connected it with a cable. Afraid to be caught any minute, he downloaded twelve files from the internet to the I-Pod. He would probably pay dearly for this – maybe he would even have to listen to Sam's music… He shuddered at the thought.

But he _needed_ this – he just knew he needed it.

When Sam came back from his shower-marathon, he found his brother on the bed, head hanging upside-down. After the initial shock, he realized that Dean was not dead, not unconscious and not drunk. Well, definitely not the first two, on the subject of alcohol-intoxication he wasn't so sure.

Big Brother grinned at him while the blood was rushing to his brain.

"You should try it – it's called: 'Yoga for losers'! It's a bit like smoking pot." He managed a wink.

"I heard hanging upside-down reduces brain-cells. I'm not sure you should risk it…"

With a happy chuckle, Dean swung himself from the bed to the ground, rolling over his shoulder and jumping to his feet like he did so often in a fight. But since his brain was flooded with blood, he dropped down again immediately. From the floor he grinned up at his brother and started to giggle childishly when Sam looked like a sheep in a shopping-mall.

"Dean – are you high?" Instead of an answer he got only more giggles. Shaking his head, he pulled him up and shoved his brother in the bathroom.

"Go, wash your head. You need it!"

A little worried, he went to the motel-desk for check-out. When he returned, Dean had dressed and was packing his bag, humming something he didn't recognize. Not Metallica.

_Dance, fucker dance, man you never had a chance…_

Dean tossed Sam the keys and dropped himself on the passenger seat.

When they had left the city-boundaries and the open road stretched in front of them all the way to the horizon, Dean pulled something out of his pocket, tenderly stroked the dashboard of his beloved Impala – _Sorry, Babe_ – and plugged in Sam's I-Pod. He turned the volume up with one hand and chose a song from the playlist. Leaning back, he put his feet on the dashboard – the first time in his life. He rolled down the window and drummed the beat with his hands on the outside-frame, nodding with the fast rhythm.

_"This time you're really dead Once followed, but always led. You thought you'd rise above it all_

_It's all inside your head All ripping it up in shreds I know someday you're gonna fall"  
_

Dean felt like a kid after a rollercoaster-ride. He'd been tumbled around, pushed up high only to drop down in a deep, stinking pile of despair. And when he was slowly climbing back up, someone had pulled the carpet away from under his feet. And yet… he felt fine. Happy. He couldn't explain it – and he didn't want to. He had no idea how long this would last, and it wasn't important.

Somewhere just out of eyeshot was the faint echo of grey eyes sparkling in the darkness, making him smile.

_"You're in an awful way Sucked in by what you crave They just can't wait to see you crawl"  
_

Wickedly, he grinned at his brother's deep frown._ I-Pod __**and**__ Offspring? What's gotten into him?_

_  
"And you can only laugh Give in to the other half They're only tearing down your walls"  
_

When the chorus came the second time, Dean screamed more than sang the text, raising his fist out of the window and with a wild, slaphappy sparkle in the eyes–-

_"And I don't wanna say I told you so But I told you so Now you've lost control"_

------he flipped his middle-finger to the sky.__

_"And I don't wanna be the rise and fall So gimme more or nothing at all"  
_

For the first time in years, he felt unconditionally great. Happy, strong and capable to take on the world – it seemed like the first time in his life he would be able to cope with absolutely everything that was put in his path.

It didn't last, but it was something he remembered…


End file.
